That Each Tomorrow Finds Us Farther Than Today
by Hekate1308
Summary: John Watson was used to many things other people would consider strange; but to wake up in a dark street and meet a young drug addict who looked eerily familiar wasn't one of them. AU, Post-Reunion.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: Hello, my friends.**

**This is what I was working on. **

**One year ago, I published my first fanfiction, and when I thought about how to celebrate this I found the answer surprisingly easy – by starting a new multi chapter story. **

**And then I decided to give you several chapters at once to mark the occasion. **

**I love AUs – as my faithful readers will know – and I thought it would be fun to send John into one. **

**I don't own anything, please review. **

John Watson knew that sighing, standing up and dusting oneself off wasn't the reaction most people would have to waking up in an unfamiliar place with no idea how they had got there.

Most people, however, didn't live with the World's only consulting detective. John had long ago grown used to being knocked unconscious, kidnapped and threatened on a daily basis.

Although he had to admit that waking up in a dark alleyway when the last thing he remembered was going out to get groceries in plain daylight was disconcerting.

Especially since he certainly happened to regain consciousness in a part of town no one would like to frequent alone after nightfall.

That wasn't his first thought, though.

No, his first thought was Sherlock.

The consulting detective had been very protective of him, ever since he returned, and he would certainly be worried about him.

That he hadn't found him yet – that Mycroft hadn't found him yet; John might have problems understanding the elder Holmes' reasoning for betraying his brother, but he still respected his power – was not a good sign. He had been gone for – John quickly checked his watch – more than ten hours; even if Sherlock had been busy with an experiment or a case, he would have noticed his absence by now.

He quickly checked his pockets.

His phone, his wallet, his keys – everything was there.

Which meant, even if Sherlock should have failed to find him (which was unlikely to begin with) Mycroft should have tracked him by now.

Furthermore, Sherlock hadn't texted him once – hadn't tried to call him – there was no indication that the consulting detective had noticed his absence.

Before Moriarty, before his disappearance, this would have been normal. Even now, his best friend didn't realize when he left their flat most of the time. And yet – and yet, ever since Sherlock had come back, he had been more considerate; John couldn't remember when he had needed more than three hours to realize he was gone and demand instantly via text where he was. His watch might have stopped – which John only realized now when he looked at his left wrist to check the time – but he had definitely left the flat in the late morning, and it was night. Sherlock would have noticed he had disappeared by now.

Something was wrong.

He managed to stand up, but only by supporting himself against the nearest wall; his knees were weak, he had a headache (so they, whoever they were, had probably knocked him out through a hit in the head) and he desperately needed a glass of water.

He immediately tried to call Sherlock, but didn't get a signal. He would have to walk through the streets until he found one.

Of course, there was no security camera in sight either, so he couldn't contact Mycroft.

John sighed. He felt weak and didn't know exactly where he was (although he was sure, without being able to say why, that he hadn't left London) and he certainly wouldn't enjoy running around, hunting for a signal. But it couldn't be helped.

Just as the thought that kept coming back to him couldn't be helped.

Had something happened to Sherlock? If someone had managed to kidnap him, or knock him out at the very least (for why would someone kidnap him only to leave him in a street where anyone could stumble upon him? It didn't make sense) without Mycroft noticing –

What had they done, or were planning to do, to Sherlock?

He had to get home. He had to warn his friend.

Thankfully he still had enough money to get a cab. If he ever managed his way out of this alleyway, that was.

After a few metres, he had stop and regain his breath, leaning heavily against the wall. Maybe they had drugged him, too; he would ask Sherlock to run a test on his blood. He had to get home in order to do so, however, so he pushed himself off the wall and continued down the alleyway, albeit very slowly.

The next street didn't look better than the last, and John was about to drag himself down the next –

When he saw a phone booth.

And one that still used coins and didn't require a card, thank God.

John immediately went in. He dialled with trembling fingers.

First he tried Sherlock's mobile.

There was no answer; no tone to indicate that the line was occupied, no voice that told him that the number was temporarily not available, nothing. It was as if the number didn't exist.

He was most definitely worried now.

He tried Mycroft; then Greg; Mrs. Hudson; Molly; and, finally, because he didn't know who else to call, he attempted to reach Mike.

Each and every time he got the same result.

But how could that be? He had long ago memorized the mobile phone numbers of his friends – living with Sherlock, losing one's phone was always a distinct possibility – and he couldn't be wrong about every one of them.

He had to get home as quickly as possible.

If only he knew the city as well as Sherlock. All he knew was that he was definitely in a rundown part of the town – he couldn't even decipher the street signs because they were so dirty – and that he desperately needed to find a cab.

He was exhausted, he was thirsty, he didn't know where he was, and he had to warn Sherlock.

All in all, it wasn't an unusual day.

And yet he would take this over the three years he'd spent waiting for Sherlock any time. He didn't want to live through this again. He couldn't live through this again.

Another reason why he had to find the consulting detective.

At least he felt better with every passing minute – if they had drugged him, whatever drug they'd chosen hadn't been very strong – and soon he was able to walk without the support of a wall. At least he'd get home quicker now.

If only he could find a cab, or a street with a security camera, or meet someone who could tell him where he was, exactly, because in whichever unsavoury part of town he ended up, he had the feeling that he was only getting more and more lost with very turn.

How he wished he had Sherlock's ability to memorize every street in London. The consulting detective would know where he was by now.

John prayed with all his might that Sherlock was safe, wherever he was. If something happened to him while he was still trying to find his way home –

No. There was no use in panicking. Maybe the phone booth had been defect. Of course it had been defect. There could be no other reason for his being unable to reach anyone. Even if someone had somehow succeeded in kidnapping Sherlock without Mycroft realizing it – which was unlikely to begin with – they couldn't have taken his, his brother's and all their friends' phones and destroyed them. If Sherlock had been here, he would have told him how utterly ridiculous he was being. The thought made John smile briefly.

Only briefly, though, because he was still walking down a dark alleyway, had no idea where he was, and had no way of reaching Sherlock because his mobile phone still refused to get reception. Why couldn't he get a signal? He was in the streets, for crying out loud, not hailed up in a cellar.

Hopefully, that was. He might just be hallucinating –

He was well and truly panicking, John realized, and forced himself to calm down. He had lived through a war; he could get home. He could find Sherlock. And then they would catch whoever was responsible for his aching head and disorientation.

Knowing the consulting detective – knowing all he had done for him, before and during and after he had been gone (he hadn't told John much, but what he had was more than enough) – it would probably be better if John got to them first. At least they stood a chance of survival then.

If Sherlock was alright, that was.

No. He couldn't think about Sherlock injured, or kidnapped, or both; he had to get home. He had to concentrate on getting home.

God he was tired.

He had to lean against another wall. He was still desperately trying to catch his breath when suddenly, somewhere near him, several people started shouting.

John forced himself of the wall and listened.

The shouting continued, and he heard something that sounded suspiciously like punches being thrown and bodies falling too.

And he didn't have his gun or any reception.

He had to help, though, or at least try, so he staggered into the direction the noises came from.

Two alleyways later, he found himself in a cul-de-sac. He couldn't make out much – almost every street lamp he'd past had been smashed, probably years ago – but as he forced himself to stand still, breathe and look over whatever was going on in front of him, the movements of the group slowly started to tell him what was going on.

There were three assailants and one victim. Judging by their groans and the shouting John had heard earlier, they were all men.

The three assailants were currently kicking the victim, who was curled up in ball. It looked like he was still moving, though.

They hadn't noticed John yet, and the doctor was grateful for the opportunity to gather his thoughts. He had to help the man, but he didn't know how. He didn't have his gun, he couldn't call the police, shouting wouldn't serve any purpose in a neighbourhood like this and he was too weak to fight.

But he had to try, if it was the last thing he ever did.

Deciding that standing around wasn't going to do much good and that he wouldn't come up with a better plan, no matter how long he thought about it, he rushed forward crying "Police!"

They stopped kicking the victim, which was the intended outcome, but instead of running they rushed at John, which most decidedly was not.

He managed to hit them once or twice, but knew it was hopeless; he could barely stand, and they were three against one.

And then the man they'd been beating John one of them from behind.

At least John thought that was what had happened – he couldn't be sure, dizzy and disorientated as he was – but he heard someone, hopefully one of his attackers, moan and threw a punch in that direction.

Somehow, they managed to fight them off without hurting each other in the process. Just as John was sure he couldn't stand up any longer, they took flight, and he staggered against the nearest wall, relieved, breathing heavily.

He was still trying to catch his breath when he heard the man he'd helped turn around and leave.

He hadn't said a word, and it certainly didn't seem like he was going to get help.

"Wait" John managed to get out. He didn't know if the man was still there – he couldn't hear him breathe, and he definitely wasn't moving – but he had to try.

"Please" he croaked. "I – I don't know where I am. I need help".

Nothing.

The man had run, just like his attackers, and had left John alone.

Right after he had come to this conclusion and was wondering how he was supposed to get out of the cul-de-sac he heard something that sounded suspiciously like an annoyed sigh.

A moment later he was yanked to his feet, the other man only grabbing his arm when it became clear he couldn't stand on his own.

He mumbled something John couldn't understand, although the voice seemed eerily familiar, as did something else about the man the doctor couldn't quite put his finger on.

The man half-dragged, half-carried him through the next few streets, occasionally mumbling to himself, sounding annoyed, and John didn't know what to think of it. He couldn't tell much about the man, only that he had the strange feeling that he'd seen him before and that he was thin, tall and unwashed.

He was at least slowly regaining the strength to stand on his own legs.

The man seemed to noticed it too, because he slowly loosening his grasp on John's waist.

Finally, they arrived in another small abandoned street. This one's streetlamp worked, at least, and John breathed a sigh of relief.

He turned to look up at his weird companion.

His breath caught in his throat. It was impossible. His mind was playing tricks on him –

Somehow, he managed to stammer one word.

"Sherlock?"


	2. Chapter 2

John blinked, trying to clear his thoughts.

The man who had immediately let go of his arm once he'd said his name and was now standing next to him –

It was Sherlock. But it couldn't be.

He looked horrible.

He was thin, thinner than John had ever seen him, and he was wearing shabby jeans and a faded t-shirt. He had neither a jacket nor a coat, but he didn't seem to feel the cold.

He was pale in the glare of the street lamp, there were dark circles under his eyes –

But the worst, the absolute worst, were the needle marks on Sherlock's arms.

Some of them clearly infected, many of them recent.

No. It couldn't be. Sherlock was clean. John couldn't have overlooked all the signs of a relapse. He was a doctor, and looking after his best friend was his job. He couldn't have been so blind, could he? He had sat through enough danger nights, either alone or with Greg; he had searched the flat countless times for Sherlock's secret dash (that thankfully had eventually been thrown out, never to be replaced). And yet – had Sherlock relapsed despite everything? Had he been taking drugs under John's nose this whole time? Perhaps ever since he'd returned? And John hadn't noticed because he was just so happy that his friend was back, because the thought that Sherlock might use again hadn't even crossed his mind... The possibility alone was enough to make John's throat constrict with guilt. He was a doctor, for crying out loud.

And then John realized that what he was seeing was indeed impossible, could only be a figment of his imagination, because Sherlock –

Not only had he been healthy when he'd left his this morning, he had certainly not been that thin, and –

This Sherlock –

He –

He –

He looked younger. Considerably younger.

Sherlock had turned forty a month ago.

The Sherlock he was looking at couldn't be much older than twenty, twenty-five at the most.

This was what John had imagined Sherlock to have been like long before they had met; now and then either the consulting detective or Mycroft or Greg had made some allusion to the past, and he'd soon understood that he didn't want to learn more. He'd been happy enough with his Sherlock, happy enough to know he'd pit all of this behind him.

That didn't mean he'd never thought about it, though, especially during the nights he'd been unable to sleep because Sherlock was gone, was never going to come back, when all he'd had were the memories of a life he thought he'd never know again – during the nights he had remembered what his life had been like before he met Sherlock, he had imagined what Sherlock's life had been like before he met him, too. Although this – he never could have imagined this. Sherlock the drug addict, Sherlock obviously homeless – his dirty clothes alone were enough to prove that he was - Sherlock being attacked by strangers in an alleyway...

Whatever they had drugged him with – for now John was sure he had been drugged, why else should his mind play this sort of trick on him? – it had been strong. Hopefully it would wear of soon.

Hopefully he wouldn't have to look at this Sherlock any longer, this Sherlock who shrunk away from his gaze, this Sherlock who –

And only then John realized.

Sherlock obviously didn't know who he was.

He had let go of him as soon as he'd uttered his name; he had put some distance between them, although not too much; he was scrutinizing him as if he wanted to find out whether John was a threat; and he appeared ready to run any moment.

He was definitely on drugs, imagining some world where Sherlock was still a young drug addict, and he desperately wished to wake up.

Sherlock – not Sherlock, but just a figment of his imagination, he firmly reminded himself – was scrutinizing him, a strange mixture of distrust and curiosity on his face.

For a moment, John wished he would have walked away, left him in the cul-de-sac. Maybe he would have woken up in the real world if he'd passed out in this one, who knew? Not that he would be able to stand for much longer. He still had a headache, he desperately needed some water, and his knees were starting to feel weaker again by the second.

Sherlock would probably leave anyway. He certainly didn't look concerned for his well-being. In fact, judging by the way he was looking at John, the doctor would be lucky if the consulting detective (no, not consulting detective, the man before him obviously had never solved a crime in his life) didn't punch him.

But John couldn't let him go, he suddenly realized. Even if this was all just in his head. He couldn't let Sherlock go. He never could. Sherlock was his responsibility, his best friend; no matter in what reality or not-reality, he had to look out for him.

And hopefully he would wake up any minute now. He might as well pass the time by talking to this young Sherlock Holmes.

Not that Sherlock wanted to talk. He was still staring at John like he had never seen something like him before or like – like no one had ever helped him before. And, maybe, if the fact that he had been lying in a dark cul-de-sac with three men beating him was anything to go by, no one had. Although it begged the question where Mycroft was and what he was doing.

Finally, he asked, "How did you know?"

"Your name?" John replied dumbly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes in the way John remembered so well, and the doctor suddenly had a lump in his throat. He swallowed.

"Yes, obviously" the young man drawled. "You are not an agent of my brother's – aside from the fact that he hasn't had any kind of surveillance on me for months, he wouldn't pick a man who gets lost while he has to shadow me and apparently shows up hung over for work".

John laughed a weak laugh because he couldn't help it; just the thought of him being Mycroft's agent was utterly ridiculous. He was confused as to why Sherlock would think that the British Government had no surveillance on him, though. He didn't know much about Sherlock's young years – he only remembered a few passing remarks of the consulting detective's about Mummy or the family mansion – but Mycroft would never let Sherlock run around London as a drug addict.

This was definitely not real. As to how John could have imagined a world where Mycroft wasn't worrying about for his brother constantly – it was an interesting question, but not the doctor's concern right now. He slowly raised a hand up to his face to massage his temples, but it only made him feel worse.

"No, I am not one of Mycroft's men" he finally said tiredly.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and John realized his mistake. The young man hadn't mentioned his brother's name.

"Who are you?" he spat, and John needed a moment to gather his thoughts. He hadn't believed – this was just a made-up world, and he was aware of it, therefore – Sherlock not knowing him shouldn't hurt so much. It did, though.

"John Watson" he answered. Sherlock tilted his head slightly to the side, obviously waiting for him to continue, and John, confused, not used to his friend patiently waiting to be told anything, asked, "Can't you deduce me?"

When he became aware of what he'd just said, he cursed inwardly.

If Sherlock hadn't trusted him before, he certainly didn't now.

Nothing could have prepared John for his reaction, though.

Sherlock stared at him, but only for a moment. Then the interest in his face disappeared and he mustered him with cold indifference.

"Deduce you? What got would that do? All I need is a simple answer to my question so I can be reassured that you are not a criminal who mistakenly believes hurting me will in any way affect my brother – if that should be the case, I can assure you that it won't."

He had never looked at John like this. He had never really looked at anyone like this.

Despite his (mostly successful, at least until Moriarty's game) attempts to convince the world that he didn't care, that he was truly indifferent towards everyone, Sherlock Holmes was not indifferent and never had been. There had always been a spark of interest in his gaze, of curiosity, well-hidden and yet obvious to those who knew him best.

Now, though, there was nothing, just an addict who was slowly starting to shiver – because he finally felt the cold or because he was starting to experience withdrawal symptoms, John didn't know – and wondering why he even bothered to talk to the weak (and old, John reminded himself bitterly, anyone over forty looked old to someone who wasn't thirty yet) man who had helped him.

John wanted to wake up. No, he needed to wake up. He didn't know what they had drugged him with, but he already knew that he hated this world, didn't want anything to do with it. Not if Sherlock looked at him that way.

"I am not going to hurt you" he finally said stupidly, and it seemed to appease Sherlock somewhat, even if he still kept his distance.

"What then? How do you know my name? My brother's name?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you" John mumbled because it was the truth. This man certainly wouldn't believe him that he was just a dream of the doctor's, just what his fears had imagined his best friend to have been like in his youth. And it didn't matter anyway. His head was hurting more and more, his knees felt even weaker, and he was sure he would pass out any moment. Hopefully he would wake up in the real world and leave all of this behind him.

"In that case I see no reason to continue this conversation" Sherlock stated.

He turned around and left. John didn't call after him because he knew it would do no good. He was close to passing out anyway, and this Sherlock his mind had chosen to torture him with obviously didn't care.

As John's knees gave out and everything turned black, another thought entered his confused mind.

What if this was real? The pavement beneath his hands certainly felt hard enough, and he could feel the cold seeping through his bones...

No. No this wasn't real. He would wake up and then he would find Sherlock. The real Sherlock.

And yet –

This didn't feel like waking up. It felt like passing out in an empty street on a cold night with God knew what drug running through his system. Perhaps he had only imagined Sherlock and nothing else.

He could die here.

The realization shocked him back into something like semi-consciousness, and he managed to call out the only name that came to his mind.

"_Sherlock – "_

It was hopeless, of course; his Sherlock couldn't hear him, and this strange ghost he'd met had probably returned to whatever part of John's subconscious he'd hailed from. And even if he had been real – this man would not have moved a finger to help John.

His thoughts were all blurring together, thoughts about Sherlock and 221B and the war and he could almost swear he was back in the dessert, blood running from the wound in his shoulder, the shouts of his comrades in his ear, trying to stand up, to call out, to do anything, really –

The darkness was rushing towards him, and something told him he was supposed to fight it, but he just couldn't.

And then, just before he lost consciousness, he could have sworn he heard an annoyed huff that reminded him of something he had forgotten.

He only knew it was something important.


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing he realized while he was slowly regaining consciousness was that he was no longer feeling cold.

Someone had put a blanket over him, and he was most definitely not lying on the pavement he had passed out on.

Of course he wasn't, he told himself as he tried to open his eyes; he had never been in that street, watching as a young Sherlock walked away from him under the glare of a street lamp.

His eyelids felt heavy, too heavy to open them, and so he decided to wait for a bit before trying it once again.

Instead, he decided to listen.

Strange – there were no sounds he associated with hospitals. No monitors, no doctors or nurses or visitors shuffling in the corridor... Come to think of it, this place didn't smell like a hospital either. John could swear he smelt – was that mildew?

A voice interrupted his thoughts, a voice he'd never heard before.

A man.

"He's going to be fine. Not your typical druggie – no scars on his arms. So I guess he got drugged with something and then dumped in our wonderful small part of the world. Lucky you".

"I would have managed".

John would recognize this voice anywhere, although it didn't quite sound like the one he remembered. At least Sherlock was here.

"I'm sure you would have – three against one, how could you not?" the other voice asked sarcastically, and John somehow knew that Sherlock was rolling his eyes without seeing it.

"Shinwell, I did not ask for your opinion. Just make sure he is well enough to return home".

Home. 221B. John couldn't wait to get back.

"Can't blame a guy for being curious, Sherlock."

Sherlock huffed and John would have smiled if his facial muscles hadn't felt so heavy.

He finally managed to pry his eyes open. He saw a man about forty leaning over him, staring at him through his glasses.

"Hey, mate, are you feeling better?"

John groaned before nodding. At least his head didn't ache anymore, and he was reasonably sure he would be able to stand up if he tried.

He attempted to sit up, but the man pushed him back down on the bed.

Or rather the mattress that was lying in a room in an obviously abandoned building.

As John became aware of his surroundings – the curtains that were only holding on by a thread, the mildew on the walls, the broken windows – he got even more confused than he already was.

Why would Sherlock bring him here instead of –

Sherlock. He had clearly heard his friend's voice. He must be here.

He blinked and tried to say something, but only managed a quiet moan.

"Awake and obviously alert" the man, Shinwell, announced, shining a light in John's eyes. The doctor winced. "Shouldn't be long until the drug completely leaves his system".

"Good". Sherlock's voice, calm, almost careless. John moved his head with some difficulty and finally saw the consulting detective standing in a corner.

No. Not the consulting detective.

The young drug addict he had rescued.

He closed his eyes again, willing the image to disappear, but another look showed him that it hadn't altered.

John sighed. If he hadn't woken up yet, all he could do was wait. He'd been a soldier, he could deal with this. Especially since he knew this was just a hallucination, vision, nightmare. He would just have to be patient.

"Where am I?" he asked in a weak voice.

Shinwell grinned.

"In hospital – or as close to one as you'll get around here. I'm Shinwell Johnson, your doctor".

Something that sounded suspiciously like a snort came from Sherlock's corner (John had decided he might as well call him that for the time being) and Shinwell cleared his throat.

"Not exactly officially, but trust me, I have a lot of experience when it comes to drugs and overdoses, don't I, Sherlock?"

The young man didn't answer and the silence rang in John's ears. Imagined or not, he didn't want to think about Sherlock overdosing. He winced.

"Don't worry" Shinwell continued, misinterpreting his reaction, "I know you're not a regular user. You didn't take it willingly, I think?"

"No, no, I didn't. Any idea what it was?"

Shinwell shrugged. "Sorry, man, but I don't have the equipment to run tests. All I can do is make sure they don't joke on their own vomit. And call the ambulance if it gets too bad".

John contemplated nodding but decided against it since his head had only just stopped hurting.

"Am I still in London?" he inquired because he couldn't be sure. He certainly hadn't recognized any of the streets he'd stumbled through, and God knew where his mind had decided to put him.

His doctor laughed. "Man, they really must have given you something strong, John. Did you piss off any drug dealers lately?"

It was John's turn to shrug. "I piss of criminals on a regular basis."

"Oh? How come?" For Shinwell this might all just be a welcome distraction – he didn't seem overly concerned for John's well-being – but at least he was interested, which was more than could be said for Sherlock, who was still standing in the corner and scratching his needle marks. And, maybe, this conversation was John's subconscious trying to help him figure out what had happened. At least John had something to do while he was waiting to wake up.

"My best friend and I solve crimes" John answered. "He's a consulting detective."

"What is that?"

It was the first time Sherlock had spoken to him since John had opened his eyes, but the doctor wished he hadn't. Not if it meant he had to look at him and realize that the job he had invented for himself meant nothing to him, that he had never heard the term "consulting detective" in his life, that he had probably never considered solving crimes.

John shouldn't be upset about a hallucination, he told himself firmly. It didn't help.

Not when someone who looked like the man who had saved his life looked at him like he neither knew nor cared who he was. Not when Sherlock didn't know what a consulting detective was.

"When the police is out of their depth, which is always" he found himself saying, or rather croaking, after a pause, "they call him."

"Your friend?"

"Yes".

Sherlock nodded, then proceeded to stare out the window. It didn't take a consulting detective to realize that he needed another shot of his drug of choice – cocaine, as Sherlock had told John one night – and wasn't interested in keeping the conversation going much longer.

"And what do you do while he helps out the police?" Shinwell was the one to ask, his eyes sparkling, obviously happy that he had finally found someone to talk to who wasn't desperately searching for his next fix.

John swallowed and forced himself to ignore Sherlock. He wasn't real, he reminded himself firmly, he wasn't real.

"I – I look after him and tend his injuries. I make sure he is safe". When he saw the suspicious look in Shinwell's eyes he added, "I used to be an army doctor".

"Oh, a real doctor then? With a decree and all?"

John simply nodded, by now confident that his headache wouldn't return.

And that was another problem.

He was feeling better by the minute. He shouldn't be. This was a hallucination, this was a strange world his mind had made up while his body was fighting of the effects of whatever drug he had been given; so why was he still here when he continued to feel better and better with every passing moment? Furthermore, he could remember everything clearly; waking up in the alleyway, his fruitless attempts to call his friends, rescuing Sherlock, passing out again, waking up here.

While he had never experienced any himself, he had read and heard a lot of stories about hallucinations, and as far as he could tell, none had ever felt so... real.

Then again, maybe that was just his mind tricking him into believing this was real.

This was easily the most confusing situation John had ever been in, and he lived with a man who kept body parts in the fridge.

He took a deep breath and tried to sit up again. This time Shinwell didn't stop him.

He managed to sit up, and decided that he might as well get out of bed while he was at it, despite Shinwell's half-hearted protests.

His knees still felt a little weak, but he didn't see the point of staying in bed. If he had to walk around in this reality a little longer, he might as well do something more entertaining than resting.

"I guess you want to go home?" Shinwell interrupted his thoughts, and John nodded.

"If you could just show me where I can get a cab, I'd be most grateful" he forced out. Because, while he definitely wanted to wake up, it still felt wrong to leave Sherlock behind.

"I'm sure Sherlock will be glad to help you out" the older man exclaimed cheerfully before shooting Sherlock a glare that was obviously meant to remind him that he owed it to John to get him home safely, and the – drug addict (not consulting detective, he couldn't call him consulting detective, he didn't know what a consulting detective was) frowned but nonetheless nodded at John to let him know he should follow him.

Just before John left the room, Shinwell grabbed his arm.

"John..." he said slowly, hesitantly, and the doctor shot him a confused look.

"Thank you. For keeping Sherlock safe. He isn't – he doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut, and he would never thank you himself, so..."

John nodded and smiled. At least even the Sherlock in his mind had something like a friend.

Shinwell smiled back and John left the house.

Sherlock was waiting impatiently in front of the door and stormed off as soon as the doctor came down the stairs. He barely managed to keep up with him.

Sherlock didn't say anything, didn't turn around until they reached a street with functioning and people hurrying home and cabs, thank God. John breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe his mind making up a safer environment was a sign that he would return home soon.

The young man turned around and said, haughtily, "I trust you will be able to find your way home from here."

Then, without another word, he left. John fought the urge to call after him and instead tried to tell himself to wake up again, but to no avail.

And then he recognized the pub on the other side of the street.

How could he not; he had visited it frequently while he'd been studying medicine. Hadn't it closed years ago? He was tired of his mind playing tricks on him.

He sighed and was just wondering whether he should try to go to 221B when the door of the pub opened and –

Several people he had studied with – looking just as young as they had when they had visited university together, no less – came out.

John recognized Mike Stamford and barely kept himself from calling out to him when someone else left the bar.

Someone young and hopeful, someone who had just finished his studies and was about to enrol in the army and save people.

How well John remembered that evening.

How well he remembered himself at twenty-five.

It didn't make any sense, he thought as he ducked into the nearest dark corner he could find until the group was out of eyesight. Why would his mind decide to put him –

Just then his gaze fell on a newspaper that someone had thrown away to rot on the pavement.

His eyes landed on the date.

_21 February, 1995. _

**Author's note: Three chapters at once to start this thing of. What do you think? I hope it's not too similar to my other Aus... I have written quite a lot of them over the past year, haven't I? Who cares, I love them. I love putting characters into weird situations. I guess that makes me weird too. Oh well...**

**I'm rambling again, but what would my anniversary be without rambling?**

**Please review. **


	4. Chapter 4

John stared at the discarded newspaper. A new wave of dizziness hit him.

Because – it couldn't be –

1995? It explained why he had seen himself, of course –

This certainly didn't feel like a memory. If he was simply reliving a memory, he should have been in the pub with his friends, not being treated by a middle-aged criminal.

He shouldn't have seen Sherlock as a young drug addict. He hadn't known Sherlock then.

John began to sweat as he finally admitted to himself that this didn't feel like a hallucination either, at least not like any he had ever heard or read about. There were no time jumps, people or places didn't suddenly disappear, and not to forget, he had blacked out and woken up in again in this World already.

Could he –

No. It was utterly impossible.

But – could he have travelled back in time?

He knew from a passing comment that Sherlock didn't consider time travel utterly impossible, but simply because it could not be proven that it was. If anything, the consulting detective considered it extremely unlikely.

What exactly had happened to John? That was the question. He could remember leaving to get the groceries, telling Sherlock so; he hadn't answered, of course, because he had been busy working on the spleen Molly had given him the day before.

The doctor tried desperately to remember what had happened after he had left 221B, but he couldn't. The last thing he remembered was walking out the door.

Even if someone had sent him back in time – Good God, was he really contemplating it? But what else was there to do? He was stuck in 1995, if the newspaper and his younger self were anything to go by – why? If they had wanted to get rid of him they could have killed him. There was no need to – whatever they had done. Because if he hadn't travelled back in time, he was hallucinating – and they could just keep him knocked out with medication. It wasn't like they had to choose one that would cause hallucinations.

It didn't make sense.

He forced himself to stay calm. What would Sherlock say in a situation like this?

_Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. _

There were only two options: He had travelled back in time or he had been drugged. He couldn't rule out either of them, however, so he would have to wait and see. If he was drugged – and it was the more probable scenario – there should soon appear some evidence, like time jumps or distorted vision.

So he would just have to be patient. He smiled a little as he wondered what Sherlock would say about that.

And then he remembered.

If this was indeed real, if he had been sent back in time –

He had just allowed Sherlock to stagger off and get his next fix.

Ignoring the protest of his tired body, John immediately started to all but run in the direction the young man had disappeared. He had to find him. He should never have let him go in the first place. Hallucination or not, he had to take care of Sherlock.

There was one problem, of course.

No matter how young he was, Sherlock knew the streets of London like the back of his hand, and John didn't even knew the name of the street he was currently running down.

He would have to trust his instincts.

He stopped running at the next street corner and wondered which way Sherlock was likely to have taken.

Sherlock was looking for drugs (and John ignored the voice in his head that told him "obviously"). So he was looking for a drug dealer. Therefore –

The darker the road, the better. Granted, John hadn't met many drug dealers before, only those Sherlock interrogated or paid for information, and he had certainly never bought any drugs; but it was only logical that they wouldn't be working in a well-lit street.

Hoping that his thinking process was somewhat logical (Sherlock would probably tell him that it wasn't, but Sherlock wasn't here and John had to stop a younger self of the consulting detective's from taking drugs – and he had thought his life couldn't get any weirder) he took the darkest street he could find, as well as the next.

And the next after that.

At least he would be able to find his way back.

After about ten minutes, he started to lose hope. Most likely Sherlock was already shooting up in a corner somewhere; even if he managed to find the drug dealer he had bought from, John could hardly expect him to know or tell him where Sherlock was.

He had to try, though. Even if he was still feeling somewhat faint.

The doctor dragged himself through another set of dark streets before deciding that he might as well turn around and try and find Sherlock through other means. He wasn't planning on resting or sleeping anyway – he still thought it far more probable that this was a hallucination – and he wondered if he could file a missing persons report. If Sherlock lived under the radar, as it seemed...

Maybe he could get hold of Mycroft, but the thought wasn't a pleasant one. John was sure that he had had quite a bit of influence even in 1995, and he wouldn't appreciate being held in some sort of top secret facility while Anthea (or whoever was the elder Holmes' PA; he figured she was too young to already work for Mycroft) tried to figure out why he should care about Sherlock so much.

He sighed and rubbed his face with his right hand. He might as well head back while he was thinking about his options.

Just as he was turning around he heard the quiet moan coming from a dark corner.

He would recognize that moan anywhere. He had treated more of Sherlock's wounds than he could count.

He ran to the corner as fast as he could.

He had known it was Sherlock, at least the Sherlock who had dragged him to a doctor – or at least someone like a doctor – but still – seeing Sherlock lying in a dark street, his pupils blown, moaning for help, with no one there –

It was almost too much to bear.

John kneeled beside him and shook the future (if this was really the past, and he was all but sure of that) consulting detective by the shoulder.

"Sherlock?"

The young man moaned again, but, while he obviously didn't recognize John, he apparently hadn't taken an overdose either, as far as the doctor could tell, and that was something, at least. He had taken a lot, he was sure; but not enough to cause serious complications, especially if (and the thought made John's heart clench) Sherlock was used to take large amounts of drugs on a daily basis.

Sp John helped him to his feet, or rather carried his dead weight, because he couldn't let him lie in a dark street the whole night.

"Sherlock? Is there someone I should call?" and as he asked, he hated himself because he shouldn't have to ask that question, because he should be there; it didn't matter that he and Sherlock were twenty and twenty-five years old, it didn't matter that they hadn't known each other in 1995. He should have been there. Sherlock Holmes should never have lain abandoned in a dark corner, with no one to help him.

Sherlock didn't answer, just stared at him, his eyes glazed over, and John swallowed. Despite all the danger nights he had had to live through, he had never seen Sherlock drugged before; he had never seen him so helpless, so utterly unlike himself, and it scared him.

"Sherlock? You have to stay awake, alright?"

Another moan was all the answer he got, and John made a decision.

A few streets back, he had passed a rather dirty-looking hotel. He still had his wallet; he could book a room for the night. He knew that he should probably get Sherlock to a hospital, but the con – the young man would definitely not like it, and he was perfectly capable of taking care of him for one night. Sherlock was high, but he hadn't taken an overdose; John only had to make sure that he was comfortable and safe.

And, with any luck, he would soon wake up in the real world, his world, and wouldn't have to worry about this Sherlock anymore.

This Sherlock who was definitely difficult to carry. He might be thinner than the Sherlock John knew, but he was still taller than the doctor, and he was all but unconscious.

John managed to drag him down to the hotel; by the time they arrived there, he was breathing heavily. He was still suffering the after effects of the drugs (or time travel, although he chose not to think about it too long, because he didn't want this to be real, desperately needed this not to be real) and he was starting to feel quite tired.

The concierge of the hotel didn't say anything, but shot them a suspicious look. John couldn't blame him. He couldn't look well himself, and yet he was dragging an all but unconscious drug addict down two flight of stairs.

He had to lean Sherlock against the wall while he opened the door and regretted it immediately when the young man slid down on the floor. He hauled him into the room and sighed.

Of course it had to be a double bed.

It was a good thing John wasn't planning on sleeping anyway. Sherlock didn't seem to be in any immediate danger, but he would still check his vitals regularly.

Acting just as professional as if Sherlock had been a stranger, he made him comfortable and arranged his limbs on the bed in a way that ensured he wouldn't choke on his own vomit, just in case.

Then John pulled up a chair and sat down beside the bed, anxiously observing his best friend's face.

Once he had nothing to do but to watch, it became hard to ignore that he had just dragged an unconscious, drugged Sherlock through town, a Sherlock who was in the process of throwing his life, his brain, everything away and who probably didn't care that he was doing it.

This Sherlock, this young Sherlock, wasn't the Sherlock John had met in a lab at Bart's years later; he wasn't the Sherlock who solved crimes, did experiments and deduced everyone he met out of principle yet. And by the looks of it, it didn't seem like he would ever become that person.

John checked his temperature; his hand lingered on Sherlock's forehead a little bit longer than necessary, and he sighed. As he finally pulled away his hand again, he noticed that his tremor was back.

It had nothing to do with his exhaustion. Seeing Sherlock like this –

John swallowed and averted his eyes. There still hadn't happened anything to indicate that this was all just a hallucination, which meant he had to consider the possibility that he was indeed in the year 1995.

Without him, Sherlock would have been lying in the street the whole night.

Another thought occurred to John.

He had just changed history – or Sherlock's history, at least. What would happen (if, he reminded himself firmly, if this was truly the past) if he continued to do so?

He looked at the young man again. He could never have left Sherlock there, but all of this was part of what had created the Sherlock Holmes who had become his best friend. Did this mean by helping him, interfering, John was shaping him into another person?

Another person who wouldn't be the Sherlock John needed when he returned from war.

The doctor shook his head as he remembered the carefree smiling young student who had left the bar. Back then, he hadn't thought his life would ever turn out like this – back then, he could never have imagined someone like Sherlock turning his life around.

Maybe he was selfish – no, not maybe, he was selfish – but the thought that Sherlock might not be there to give him a new purpose in life was enough to make his hands tremble even more.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock didn't move the entire night; John regularly checked his pulse to convince himself that he was still alive. His breathing was uneven, and he was sweating; but that was only to be expected.

Thankfully, he didn't grow worse, so at least the doctor didn't have to call an ambulance. He had the feeling that the young man wouldn't appreciate that.

He wouldn't appreciate John watching over him either, probably, but he didn't care.

Somewhere around three am, John drifted off to sleep, unable to stay awake any longer. He was still feeling faint – either time travel was much more exhausting than books and movies made it out to be, or he had been given powerful drugs indeed – and despite his efforts, his eyes closed.

When he woke up, it was past eight and Sherlock was moving and mumbling to himself. John quickly stood up and checked his vitals. At least most of the drug had left his system.

Eventually, Sherlock opened his eyes. For a moment, he obviously couldn't place John, and the doctor swallowed.

Then the young men's eyes narrowed.

"Where am I?" he spat and John realized how this must look for him.

"In a hotel" he answered calmly. "You were lying unconscious in the street. I brought you here and made sure you didn't die during the night".

Once again, he had surprised Sherlock; the young man tilted his head to the side and studied him attentively before deciding that he had told the truth.

Once he had, he inquired, "Why?"

"Why what?"

Sherlock huffed. "You continue to keep "saving" me, as you would undoubtedly call it, and since we only met yesterday, I do believe that it is a legitimate inquiry".

John had to admit that it was, but he didn't know how to answer. To tell Sherlock that either this whole world was a product of his imagination or that he was his future best friend who had travelled back in time and somehow stumbled across him wasn't an option. The other man would probably just roll his eyes and stand up to leave.

As he was doing now.

"Since I am obviously not going to get an answer, I am leaving. Goodbye".

He hadn't thanked him, John registered, but that didn't matter. What mattered was that Sherlock didn't just go out and find the nearest drug dealer.

He quickly crossed the room and grabbed Sherlock's arm.

"Sherlock, please wait."

"Why should I?" Sherlock asked, obviously bored, his cheek bones standing out more than ever, his face paler than John had ever seen it.

"Because I can't just let you go and find your next fix."

"Why not?"

The indifference in Sherlock's eyes was almost too much to bear.

John cleared his throat. There were so many things he wanted to say but couldn't.

_Because you are my best friend._

_Because I killed for you._

_Because you died for me._

_Because you granted me a miracle._

_Because I can't imagine life without you. _

None of these reasons would convince Sherlock that he was to be trusted, though. If anything, he would think John was crazy. He wouldn't be the first.

"I just don't want you to overdose. Is that so difficult to understand?"

Sherlock was taken aback, and John knew. He simply knew. Yes, the concept that someone cared enough to keep him away from the drugs was new to the younger man, because no one ever had. The doctor didn't know much about his friend's earlier life, but he knew he had been lonely after Mycroft left to go to university when Sherlock had been eleven years old, so his parents couldn't have been around much. There was every possibility that Sherlock had never understood why someone would look after him –

Before John.

Suddenly, the doctor remembered the consulting detective's surprise when he had been amazed instead of appalled at his deductions. He felt nauseous.

"Most people do not care for someone who is neither a family member nor a friend" Sherlock said matter-of-factly. John, telling himself that this was still Sherlock, young or not, drug addict or not, simply shrugged and replied flatly, "I'm not most people".

"I guess" Sherlock answered and looked at the floor before raising his eyes to study John's face again.

"So, what does an ex-army doctor who, judging by his shoes and jumper, lives in a respectable part of London, do in this part of town in the middle of the night? I assume you were drugged and woke up here?"

"Yes" John said, and he couldn't deny that he felt relieved when he realized that Sherlock was studying him, trying to deduce him. This was more like the Sherlock he had come to know and trust.

"But you didn't go home".

"I can't" John answered. It was the truth. He couldn't go home.

Only then did he finally realize that he indeed could not go home. He certainly wasn't waking up anytime soon – there still was no indication that this was a hallucination – and in 1995, 221B must either have been let to someone else or stood empty – Mrs. Hudson would still be living with her later to be executed husband.

"Why?"

John sighed; at least Sherlock had always been curious and demanded answers whether or not the person he asked wanted to tell him.

"I just can't, alright?" It came out sharper than he intended, and Sherlock's eyes grew hard again.

John shook his head. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to – it's difficult to explain."

"I see". It was easy to understand that Sherlock didn't, and that he was desperate to get his next fix and forget all about the strange ex-army doctor in the process.

John was desperate. He could have lied, but Sherlock wouldn't have given him the time to lie. So he blurted out, "What do you think about time travel?"

Sherlock blinked, slowly, then studied John again, apparently trying to decide whether the doctor was still suffering from the after-effects of the drug.

"You already know I used to be an arm doctor" he continued, "and I'm sure you can tell that I was shot in the left shoulder". That earned him something like a smirk.

He added, "I was wounded in Afghanistan. In 2010."

It was perhaps not the best explanation, but this was Sherlock; he had thrown facts at people and expected them to make sense of what he was saying for as long as John had known him.

The young man understood, although he needed a few moments to comprehend that John was indeed claiming that he was a time traveller.

He raised an eyebrow. "You were shot in Afghanistan in 2010. So you think you come from the future".

"I do not think – I know."

"You woke up here after getting shot?"

John shook his head. "No. Actually I come from the year 2015."

Unexpectedly, Sherlock chuckled. "Surely you must be aware that what you are saying is impossible".

"Not impossible" John argued, "just highly improbable".

Sherlock sighed. The doctor could see that he was becoming more and more impatient. He wouldn't listen to him for much longer. But no matter what – he wouldn't buy any drugs today. John would make sure he wouldn't.

"While I do admit that it has never been proven that time travel is impossible – neither has it been proven that it isn't."

"I know" John answered, "and yet here I am."

"Prove it" Sherlock demanded, starting to walk up and down the room, his hands twitching, itching for a shot.

John almost said that he couldn't, but then he remembered his mobile phone. He quickly took it out of his pocket and gave it to Sherlock.

"That's a smartphone" he explained. "Naturally, I can't get any reception here – there's no network for these kinds of phones yet."

Sherlock frowned and took the phone, his fingers gliding over the touchscreen.

"I've never seen such a mobile phone before" he muttered. "and the ones I've seen certainly don't have that many... extra features."

"It's more annoying than anything else, in my opinion" John replied, shrugging his shoulders. He rarely used it for anything other than calling or texting people. Sherlock seemed to be intrigued, though, and John wasn't surprised. If there was one thing he couldn't picture the consulting detective without, it was his phone.

Sherlock looked over the phone for a few more minutes before reluctantly handing it back.

"I am not saying I believe you – but I have to admit it looks futuristic".

John smiled, albeit weakly. He had not convinced Sherlock – to be honest, he wouldn't believe his story either – but the young man was listening to him. And he wasn't running off to the nearest drug dealer.

Not yet.

But he would eventually, and –

The truth was, John had no idea how to proceed. Sherlock was listening to him, but he didn't know what to do or say next. He just wanted to go home, but he very much doubted that anyone could help him if he was indeed in the past.

And, much as he hated the thought, Sherlock definitely wouldn't be able to help him. Sherlock was not able to help himself, how could he expect him to do what his older self would have done? Suddenly, looking at the young, thin addict John was reminded of Harry, who had finally got off the booze while Sherlock had been gone but was still struggling, and he swallowed.

"Who is it?"

"Sorry?"

"Obviously someone in your family has a history of addiction. It's easy enough to deduce from the way you react to my withdrawal symptoms. So, who is it?"

John couldn't help but smile. At least Sherlock was still able to deduce people, and he was right about Harry; even though he had no way of knowing that at least part of John's discomfort came from his memories of a clean, wonderful, annoying sod he shared a flat with and that he would hopefully one day become.

John decided not to tell him, though. Thinking it just possible that he came from the future was one thing; accepting that he was his best friend and flatmate another.

"My sister" he replied instead, and Sherlock nodded.

Then he studied John again, apparently puzzled by something.

"Most people do not appreciate my deductions. You don't only knew about them, but asked me to deduce you, and you knew about my brother. How?"

It was a question John had been dreading, but he managed to say pleasantly, as if he was joking, "Maybe we are friends in the future".

"I don't have friends".

John cringed. He had heard these words before (would hear them – this time travel business was rather confusing), and how vividly he could remember when and why. But then, Sherlock had been angry, scared, hadn't really meant them. Now, it was a simple statement, the young addict actually believing that he would never have a friend in his life.

And John couldn't tell him that he would because he wouldn't believe him. Not when he was already convinced he would be alone for the rest of his life.

"You met me in the future, then?" Sherlock interrupted his thoughts, and seeing him standing there, shivering, lost, John found himself wondering if he shouldn't throw caution to the wind and tell him after all.

But what if he really changed the future in the process? What if he came back only to find he wasn't living with Sherlock, or that the consulting detective had really –

"I – I – " he stammered.

Sherlock waved a hand. "I understand. You are a doctor. I assume you treated me because of an overdose or a similar condition. Maybe Mycroft came to the hospital, although it is unlikely. Either that or you and your "friend" met me during a case. You don't have to tell me. I feel no need to hear it."

Sherlock had already given up on his life, and John didn't know how to make it right. A shiver ran down his spine.

He wanted to get home, to his real time, to his best friend.

But for the time being, he would have to contend himself with looking after this Sherlock and hoping he'd find a way to return soon.

He looked up at the young man's face and smiled.

"I'm a little peckish. Do you want to join me for breakfast?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note: I think I am enjoying this premise a little bit too much. Poor John.**

**I don't own anything. A few more reviews? Please? **

He should have known that Sherlock hadn't eaten much when he had been younger either. After walking silently through the city, they had eventually found a small café whose waiters didn't shoot Sherlock suspicious looks, or at least didn't do so too blatantly.

The young man didn't even order coffee, as John's Sherlock would have done; and, like so often before, the doctor ate while his companion sat across from him, not saying a word, lost in his thoughts.

And yet John couldn't fool himself into believing that this was his flatmate, not even for a moment. His casual, dirty clothes; his young haggard face; and, worst of all the tell-tale signs that he needed another fix were enough to constantly remind him how strange and unbelievable this whole situation was.

He didn't know why Sherlock had agreed to accompany him, to be honest; he had shown him his phone, and it seemed to have made an impression, but still – he couldn't believe that it had been enough to convince him. Then again, Sherlock Holmes had always been curious; he probably wanted to see what other nonsense this stranger (it still hurt, to remember that Sherlock didn't know him) would talk about.

But he wasn't running off to the nearest dealer, at least for the time being, and John would take what he could get.

And he couldn't deny that the chance – the possible chance, maybe this was all a hallucination, maybe he had been drugged, maybe he was in a coma – to know more about Sherlock's youth had its advantages.

They had never really talked about Sherlock's early life. John had told him about his parents and his service, of course, even a few embarrassing stories of his university days; but Sherlock, despite having saved all of them in his mind palace (which John found out by accident when they met an old mate of his on Oxford Street one day and Sherlock knew immediately who it was and what he'd told the consulting detective about him) had never been as forthcoming.

John knew how he had met Mrs. Hudson; he knew how he had met Greg.

He knew enough of his childhood to know that it hadn't been a happy one. From what he could gather by remarks of Sherlock's and Mycroft's, they had been mostly left to the care of nannies or tutors, their parents now and then flittering by to check on their progress. The brothers had only had each other, and the doctor suspected that the first breach in their relationship had occurred when Mycroft left for university while the eleven-year-old Sherlock had been forced to stay behind, alone. He was sure that Sherlock had never had a friend at school, either; certain that the other pupils looked at him as a freak because he liked to do experiments and deduce people.

Sherlock's drug habit –

John barely knew anything about this part of his best friend's life.

He had learned very early on, at Greg's first drug's bust, that Sherlock had at one point taken drugs; and soon afterwards he had sat up on the first danger night and realized that there were many things he didn't know about this man who had saved his life.

He had never asked, and Sherlock had never told him, but by the way Greg talked about the drugs (although only in passing; he would never betray Sherlock's confidence like that, not even to John) and by Mycroft's allusions, it was easy to deduce that the consulting detective had consummated heroin or cocaine or some other hard drug.

Apparently it had been cocaine, since the Sherlock who was sitting across from him was feeling coke bugs crawling on his skin, based on how he kept twitching and moving around on his seat.

Sherlock had obviously got clean after he met Greg – otherwise, the DI would never have been so adamant about even searching the flat for drugs – most likely because their friend had given him some kind of ultimatum about quitting if he wanted to work with the police. This meant he must still have been an addict when he'd met Mrs. Hudson – he'd known her about three years longer than Greg, if John remembered correctly.

But most of this was all just conjecture, things unsaid, sentences unfinished, the attempt to make sense of his best friend; John had felt from the start that Sherlock wouldn't answer a question he didn't feel comfortable with, so he had never pried. He didn't know much about Sherlock after all.

No; that wasn't right. He knew almost everything there was to know about the man he had become, about the man who was living with him; he simply didn't know anything about the Sherlock he was currently having breakfast with.

That Sherlock cleared his throat.

"I assume that you cannot go home because you are from the future and it doesn't exist yet."

John nodded, his throat tight. He was glad when Sherlock didn't ask any questions; how could he tell him about 221B, the smiley face on the wall, the skull, the landlady who wasn't a housekeeper, the body parts in the fridge, the Cluedo nailed to the wall, the absolute wonderful craziness of home.

"Then why don't you go back?"

It sounded so matter-of-factly, so utterly plausible in Sherlock's calm voice, and John would have laughed if this situation hadn't been so tragic.

"I can't". Sherlock shot him his usual sceptical look and John added, "I don't know how. I woke up here – the last thing I can remember is leaving our flat to buy groceries this morning. Or, rather, a morning twenty years in the future."

"And why would anyone send you into the future? Even if time travel where possible in 2015 – I am reasonably sure that scientists are working on a device as we speak – why would someone choose to send you back, of all people? You are completely ordinary."

John almost flinched. It hadn't been said with malice; he knew when Sherlock wanted to insult someone, and this wasn't one of those times.

He was simply stating a fact. For him, John was nothing but a completely ordinary ex-army doctor who had somehow stumbled into a very strange situation and had determined to follow the first person he met.

Somehow, the doctor managed to answer calmly, "You would be surprised. I was a soldier. I killed people."

"You were a doctor" Sherlock pointed out, so naturally, so much like he had down all those years ago, or rather would point out all those years later, only that he wasn't having troubled breathing, that John was taken aback for a second before replying automatically, "I had bad days".

Sherlock smiled – not a real smile, not the smile John was used to seeing, but it was close enough – and asked, "What are your plans?"

It would have been easy to answer if John had been sure Sherlock would be there, would help him to make sense of all this, but he wasn't. This young man, this man who didn't know wouldn't think twice about running off as soon as he was bored with him, and by the looks of it, his withdrawal symptoms would win the battle between any interest he might have in the case and getting another fix soon.

All John knew was that the thought of never seeing his Sherlock, his home again was inacceptable. He had to get home. He would get home. He had fought his way through Afghanistan, he could manage this.

"I will have to find whoever sent me back and force them to return me to my time" he finally stated.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, probably because he had said it so matter-of-factly, something he had picked up from his best friend. It did they trick, though; Sherlock stopped fidgeting and focused on him once again.

"You and your friend solve crimes. You must have made some enemies" Sherlock argued, and John nodded. They definitely had. True, most were either dead or in prison –

A possibility that hadn't crossed his mind until then suddenly struck him.

Sherlock had escaped death. Had made everyone believe he was gone.

If Sherlock could do it –

So could Moriarty. The consulting criminal had been Sherlock's polar opposite; he could have faked his suicide.

John knew that Mycroft had had his body removed after Sherlock's disappearance, believing that its discovery would only prove that he had been Richard Brooke and that the consulting detective had indeed invented the crimes he had claimed to solve. Sherlock had told him as much. True, he hadn't told him (most likely because he didn't know) where Mycroft had had the body hidden, but the British Government would have made sure that it never showed up again...

Only Mycroft had been tricked before, had been manipulated by Moriarty before.

If Moriarty was out there –

If anyone could build a time machine, it would be Sherlock. And if Sherlock could do it, so could Moriarty.

Maybe it was he who had had John captured and send him back in time; maybe he was after him now, when Sherlock wasn't the man he knew, maybe –

John shook his head. He had no proof that Moriarty was alive; and if he had a time machine there were better things he could do with it than send John into the year 1995. He knew the consulting criminal – he would probably have changed the outcome of World War I and II just because he was bored.

"While I appreciate people who don't talk more than necessary, you did seem adamant about having this conversation" Sherlock's impatient voice interrupted his thoughts.

John swallowed. While he had no idea if he had really gone back in time, he had the suspicion that, should he change the past, he would change the future too. If he told Sherlock too much, wouldn't he be able to deduce that it was him John had spoken about? That he solved crimes with an ex-army doctor, shot at walls, did weird experiments in their kitchen?

Would he perhaps wish to live another life? Would he change?

If he did, John would probably vanish. Sherlock had saved his life when they met, had pulled him back from the edge. All that what be left of him in 2015 would be a neglected grave.

And –

He really shouldn't be so selfish. It wasn't only his life that would change for the worse if Sherlock decided to become someone else. All the cases he'd solved, all the lives he'd saved – Mrs. Hudson. Henry Knight. The Ambassador's children.

But at the same time...

John looked at the young addict who had already given up. Perhaps telling him would open a new perspective?

Sherlock rolled his eyes and made to stand up, but John grabbed his arm.

"I'm sorry. I just got lost in my head. I – you are right. We made quite a lot of enemies on the way". He hoped Sherlock wouldn't notice how he had unconsciously pronounced the "we" – it was clear he meant "you and I" and not "him and I". But the other man either hadn't heard the subtle difference or he didn't care because he thought John was crazy.

"Is there any particular reason one of them would send you in the past? Killing you would be a much more efficient way of disposing of you."

He couldn't deny that hearing Sherlock talk so indifferently about his death hurt. John did his best not to let it show on his face and shrugged.

"I don't know who or why would want to send me back."

Sherlock huffed and John realized he was losing him. He didn't know what was going on, and this Sherlock had not interest in speculating. He simply wanted his drugs.

His fear were confirmed when the young man stood up.

"Fascinating as your story is, I fear I have to go. Goodbye, John".

Two words he had hoped never to hear again.

He threw money on the table and followed Sherlock into the street.

"Wait!"

The younger man turned around, frowning.

"What aren't you telling me?" he spat. "Why do you care if I decide to take drugs?"

"I – I –"

John was trying to decide whether to tell him when three police cars raced through the street, lights flaring and horns blaring.

Both of them looked after them.

Sherlock frowned. "Three cars? That's unusual in this part of town."

Most likely because the police knew they couldn't do much good here, John thought.

He said, "Let's check it out".

Sherlock turned to look at him and raised an eyebrow.

"Check out a crime scene?"

"Don't act like you're not curious".

The half-smile Sherlock gave him was almost the one John was used to, and he started to hope that things would turn out alright.

**Author's note: I figured why not give them a case. **

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's note: Here, have addict Sherlock and confused John walking to a crime scene.**

**I don't own anything, please review. **

It was a strange feeling, walking in front of Sherlock to a crime scene; usually the consulting detective was all but running to the next case and John was trying his best to keep up. But with all the other things that had happened today, John couldn't bring himself to care.

"How did you know I was interested?" Sherlock asked, genuine curiosity in his voice; John chose not to answer because he was sure the young man wouldn't react well to being told that the doctor knew about his interest in the Carl Powers case when he hadn't even been fifteen years old.

He turned around to look at Sherlock, though, and realized that being enigmatic – for lack of a better word – might be the best course of action. The other man looked at him with a strange mixture of curiosity and surprise on his face – he was surprised that someone as ordinary as John could make him curious, the doctor realized, and perhaps he still didn't understand that he genuinely cared about him.

Either way, right now John wasn't boring, and this was the one way he could make sure that Sherlock stayed with him for the time being. And he had to admit that the familiarity of going to a crime scene with Sherlock was somewhat comforting.

It wasn't difficult to follow the police; even though they didn't seem to be moving anymore, their horns were still going, probably to warn any inhabitant of the district who might want to cause trouble to stay away. They walked through several streets that seemed vaguely familiar to John – he must have stumbled through them yesterday – until they could finally see the crime scene tape.

The action concentrated on a small, abandoned house in the middle of a rather dirty street.

He felt more than saw Sherlock stiffen behind him and turned around; but by the time he could take a good look at his face, he wore the blank mask John hadn't seen for a while, in fact not since he returned.

"Is something wrong?" the doctor asked, concerned. It was never a good sign when Sherlock tensed at a crime scene.

"No" Sherlock immediately answered, his tone calm, looking bored for anyone who didn't know him.

Only John did know him, even if he wasn't aware of it.

And something was wrong.

Sherlock must have recognized the house. They had to –

And only then John realized.

He was so used to simply walking into crime scenes in Sherlock's wake that he hadn't thought about how they would manage to be let in. This policemen didn't know Sherlock, couldn't know Sherlock, and of course they didn't know him either; he was still a young man about to join the military.

There was no way they would allow him and a drug addict to look at the body – especially since he hadn't had the chance to take a shower since he got here, wherever or whenever "here" might be.

He sighed and brought a hand up to rub his face. He'd got lost in the familiarity of it all, and now he didn't know what to do or say to keep Sherlock with him.

"I would assume that Victor has finally overdosed, only that this would hardly warrant the presence of so many police men" Sherlock suddenly said, and John looked at him, raising an eyebrow.

"Victor?"

Sherlock did his best to look utterly uncaring as he answered, "Victor Trevor. He usually slept in this house. He was a well-known figure in this part of town, slightly older than me."

John studied Sherlock's face. He was shivering, and pale in the cold harsh light of the morning; his face was impassive and he looked at the house as if his gaze had landed upon it accidentally. John knew better, though. Sherlock cared; he cared whether whoever had been hurt – and someone had to have been hurt, the house was obviously abandoned and there were too many police men for a simple break-in – was the man he knew, this Victor Trevor.

Sherlock had never mentioned him, of that John was certain; he would have remembered for the simple reason that the consulting detective rarely ever mentioned anyone from his past, unless it had to do with a case.

They probably hadn't been friends, but it was difficult to say.

This Sherlock – he was colder than the Sherlock John knew and trusted; more closed off from the world. It took someone who knew him well to see the slight tension in his shoulders; the almost imperceptible wrinkle between his eyebrows that indicated he had realized what all of this meant, that someone he had known might just have died.

It took someone who knew him even better to realize that he wasn't as indifferent as he looked and sounded.

It gave John more proof how alone Sherlock had been for years, and he didn't like it.

"And you? Did you know him well?" he finally asked, stupidly, because he still had no idea how to get into the crime scene, and he had to know. Not only because he was curious, but because every information about the (possible) victim could help them solve the case –

Suddenly another thought crossed his mind.

Sherlock had never mentioned Victor Trevor. He liked talking about old cases, though. That didn't necessarily mean anything; maybe this had nothing to do with Victor Trevor; but he had certainly never told John about an old case in this part of town, which probably meant that –

He hadn't been there. It made sense; he had been taking drugs and he wouldn't have followed the police cordon if John hadn't done so.

If this was real, so much for not changing history. Then again, he had already done that by rescuing Sherlock from that alleyway.

"I knew him by sight. And, as far as I remember, we talked a few times" Sherlock replied. John frowned. Sherlock didn't use phrases like "as far as I remember". He had his mind palace. If he remembered something he hadn't deleted, he was sure of it.

He had been high.

It shouldn't have shocked John as much as it did.

He could have told Sherlock that he was sorry or said something else a normal person would have said; but he knew him, or would know him, and he had just had an idea. True, not a very good idea, but still...

"Would he have any id with him?"

Sherlock gave him a look that meant "Don't be an idiot" and that comforted John with his familiarity before answering, slowly as if he was afraid the doctor wouldn't catch his reply if he spoke any faster, "No, he wouldn't have. People around here hardly carry anything that would allow anyone to identify them."

John nodded.

"So, if that's him... They would need someone to identify the body."

Sherlock understood immediately. He wasn't pleased.

"Can't you just investigate the case as you do usually? Oh wait" he added sarcastically, "you don't investigate crimes yet. I forgot".

John ignored the tone and, because Sherlock started scratching his arm again, decided that they had to act.

"Follow my lead" he said, once again feeling strange because this wasn't something he would ever have pictured himself to tell Sherlock, and made his way towards the crime scene tape. For a moment he was afraid that Sherlock would leave, that he wouldn't want to investigate the crime, that he would rather find a dealer, but a second later he heard quick steps behind him and breathed a sigh of relief.

He didn't recognize the Constable who was standing in front of the tape, but that was hardly surprising.

"Excuse me?" he asked politely.

The Constable eyed them with a certain suspicion in his eyes, and John couldn't blame him. They had to be a rather strange sight; y man in his forties who hadn't really slept or taken a shower in twenty-four hours and a young drug addict who was obviously suffering withdrawal symptoms.

"Yes?"

John decided against using his real name; he would rather have someone find out that he was going by an alias rather than them wondering why he was using the name of a student and contacting his past self. It would just be too confusing. And possibly create several paradoxes, if the books he'd read and the movies he'd watched over the years were anything to go by.

"I'm Peter Jones. I'm a social worker" he began; it wasn't the best cover story, but he hadn't been able to think of anything else. "This is Michael" he continued (having decided that it would be better if Sherlock's name didn't show up in a case file, not yet), gesticulating towards the young man who was still scratching his arm and looking bored.

"He told me that a friend of his used to sleep in this house, and he's worried."

The Constable shot Sherlock a sceptical look, mostly because he looked anything but worried, but thankfully concentrated on John. While the doctor had never been a very good liar, people usually trusted him.

"I'm sorry to tell you" the police man said, more to John than to Sherlock, "but we found a body in the house".

"Oh" John answered, making sure to look slightly crestfallen, he was supposed to be a social worker looking out for his charge after all.

He turned to Sherlock.

"Michael – you think it could be Victor?" he inquired and tried to give Sherlock a look that made clear he should at least try to act somewhat concerned.

Sherlock got the hint and sighed. It still sounded false to John, but the Constable didn't know him, so it should be convincing enough.

"It could be" he replied in a weak and timid voice. John managed not to frown – he suspected that part of the weakness came from his withdrawal symptoms. "I don't know of anyone else who used to sleep in this house".

John looked at the Constable.

"Is there any way we could..." realizing the other man was still sceptical, he added quickly, "Michael has been nervous all morning, you see, and I don't want him to fret over this longer than necessary. It will be difficult enough for him if it is indeed Victor without the uncertainty."

"Wait here" the other man said and went into the house.

John relaxed.

"That should get us into the house".

"And what then?"

Of all the questions Sherlock could have asked, this was the one John had been the least prepared for because it had never crossed his mind that his friend would wonder what to do at a crime scene. Then again, he was definitely growing impatient and, since he was rubbing his temples, starting to get a headache besides his other withdrawal symptoms.

"We investigate" John answered carefully, not letting the worry he felt seep into his voice.

Sherlock sighed, looking at the pavement.

John decided not to attempt to wake his enthusiasm – hopefully the crime scene would do that – but he had to say something.

"You can leave anytime you want" he reminded him, because he knew how to talk to a sulky Sherlock and prayed this young version wasn't as annoyed as he appeared to be at the prospect of investigating a case, "and yet you are still here. Something about this has to have captured your interest".

Sherlock blinked; he didn't answer, but he didn't roll his eyes or leave either, so John figured he'd said the right thing.

"My superior officer wants to see you" the Constable announced behind him and John turned around with a nod.

"Thank you".

They made their way through crime scene techs and to a room on the second floor.

Only for John to stand still so abruptly that Sherlock walked right into him.

The young man hissed into his ear "What is going on?" while John was still staring at the man who was kneeling over the body and the Constable, who had thankfully not realized they were no longer following him, was walking towards.

"Here they are, sir".

Sherlock have John a shove and he somehow managed to go to the body.

The man stood up and smiled, extending his hand.

"Good Morning. DS Lestrade."

**Author's note: What do you mean I killed a character from the ACD canon? (looks down on the floor).**

**So, yes, our favourite police man showed up because... because.**

**I hope you liked it, please review.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's note: So now Lestrade's in the picture... It was a surprise to me too. It happens.**

**This chapter will be shorter, sorry.**

**I don't own anything, please review. **

He should have known. Nothing concerning Sherlock Holmes ever turned out to be simple – not that this whole situation had been easy to begin with.

And now he was looking at another man who would eventually become his friend and had no idea who he was.

Greg didn't look much different, except that he was a little thinner and that his hair wasn't grey.

John swallowed and forced himself to shake his hand – Greg was already looking puzzled because he hesitated to do so – and repeated their story.

Greg nodded and asked Sherlock, with his usual politeness and apparently unfazed by his appearance, "So you think you know the victim?"

"Just as I know that you were promoted recently" Sherlock drawled and John grinned. So this Sherlock still cared, just like he had suspected he did; he was still interested in crimes and the people who investigated them.

Greg raised an eyebrow and answered, "Yes, I did. How did you know?" and John realized that their first encounter must have been very similar to this one –

Only, if he had indeed been sent to the past (he had to keep reminding himself that all of this might not be real – Sherlock and the young John Watson he had seen walking out of the pub, happy and carefree – it all felt real), this shouldn't be their first meeting. During "A Case In Pink" Greg had told him that he'd met Sherlock five years ago – when he'd been thirty, not twenty-five. Plus, the DI would never have forgotten that he had met John, the John who had already been to Afghanistan and met and lost Sherlock, before that crime scene.

He might be changing the past. He might make sure that Sherlock was accepted as a consultant much earlier than he should have been, and therefore not be interested in finding a flatmate after all –

God, he was selfish. He shouldn't care about that. At all.

"Because everyone else is keeping their distance – even though, based on the look your DC gave you, you are far from unpopular. They are not used to you being their boss, then. Also, you are definitely at the centre of the crime scene, instead of standing in the back, giving orders how to proceed; you are not used to it. Don't worry, I am sure you will be in time".

John bit back a laugh, because if there was anything Greg wasn't good at, it was standing in the corner. Their DI was always at the centre of any investigation he was working on, which was one of the reasons Sherlock had so many cases to begin with. Still, John reminded himself, Sherlock didn't know Greg, and Greg didn't know Sherlock; and neither of them knew him.

Greg, as he would have expected, had he taken a moment to think about the possibility of them meeting at all, was not only unfazed, but apparently fascinated by Sherlock's deductions. He didn't say anything, but John knew the look in his eyes, the look that told him Greg was taking a special interest in the person talking to him, that he cared.

Sherlock seemed to be taken aback – John couldn't blame him, it was obvious he had never met someone who was interested in his deductions before, well before John – so the doctor said, trying to sound apologetic but realizing he didn't, not when he knew the DI didn't mind, "I'm sorry. It's what he does."

"It's alright" Greg said, still studying Sherlock before continuing, "You can see the body now... but I should warn you, it's not a pretty sight".

Sherlock nodded and John hastened to reply, "We understand" because it was clear Sherlock wouldn't and in fact would not bat an eyelid no matter how the body looked.

Couldn't tell them again, and John found that he couldn't tell what his friend was thinking. It was logical in a way; just like Sherlock, Greg wasn't the DI he'd eventually get to know yet. It was disconcerting all the same.

The DS finally nodded and led them to the body.

He'd been right; it wasn't a pretty sight.

The victim had been stabbed numerous times, several of them in the face; his features were still recognizable, thankfully, which was why their plan had worked to begin with.

Greg didn't say anything, he simply looked at Sherlock.

"Yes" the young man said, "That's Victor".

Greg frowned and John bit his lip. Sherlock had sounded entirely uncaring – which John knew him not to be.

But he wasn't the consulting detective he knew so well, either, and he was still so closed off from everyone around him that it was difficult to understand that he cared. Obviously the DS was puzzled by his reaction; his gaze slowly swept across Sherlock's features, and John realized he was looking for signs of shock.

Only there weren't any.

"Did you know him well?" Greg asked, apparently thinking this might a solution to the riddle.

"I know he came from a rather wealthy background and ran away from home because he didn't want to fulfil the expectations his family had of him. He was allergic to bees, he took cocaine and he usually slept in this house. Aside from that, no, I didn't know him well".

Sherlock wasn't being sarcastic; he simply didn't consider his deductions warranted "knowing someone well" because that implied a personal relationship, John suspected.

Only Greg wasn't aware of that, and now the look he gave Sherlock was openly suspicious.

"Then how did you know all of this? Was it the same thing you did earlier? "What you do"?"

"Yes" Sherlock answered, obviously bored by the questions. "I don't expect someone with your mental capacity to understand."

"Try me". It was an order, not a request, and John looked from the DS to Sherlock, confused. That wasn't how he had imagined their first meeting at all –

Because it hadn't gone this way.

Shouldn't have gone this way. They shouldn't have met for another five years. By this time, Sherlock would already have met Mrs. Hudson and realized that he wanted to spend his lives solving crimes; he would have grown tired of the drugs, or rather their effect on him, too and therefore listened – at least not rejected – Greg's advice to get clean so he could work with the police. Sherlock had never told John any of this, but he had heard the stories of how the consulting detective first met Mrs. Hudson and DI Lestrade more times than he could count, and it hadn't been difficult to figure out what had finally made Sherlock choose to get clean.

Now, though – Sherlock was still an addict, convinced cocaine was all he needed, and Greg was a freshly promoted DS desperate to prove himself. They obviously hadn't clicked like they would have five years from now.

John's heart beat painfully in his chest as he realized that he might just have changed the future irrevocably. If Greg never told Sherlock to give up the drugs –

He couldn't think about that now. He couldn't allow himself to think about that now.

Sherlock sighed.

"It was obvious from the way he talked that he had been enrolled in a rather prodigious boarding school – sons of families wealthy enough to pay for such an education rarely end up on the street if they do not choose to do so, therefore he must have left home of his own free will. He always had an epi pen with him, even though he normally used all his money on drugs, and he was terrified whenever he spotted a bee. He told me once that he slept here when we were waiting for a business partner".

John was thankful Sherlock hadn't said "dealer" even though it didn't seem to make much difference for Greg.

At least the DS looked a little less suspicious (albeit still sceptical) and that was something.

"Where can I reach you?" he finally demanded and John tried his best to hide his relief. Initially, he had hoped that they could spend more time at the crime scene, but since he'd seen Greg, his only thought was to get out before he caused even more damage.

"Peter is sure to bring me to a shelter" Sherlock answered haughtily before turning around and leaving. John apologized and quickly made up a legit-sounding address.

Greg's goodbye was less polite than his hello, and John left with the bad feeling that he saw Sherlock as a suspect.

He walked as quickly as he could, but to his surprise Sherlock was waiting for him in front of the house instead of having run off to the nearest dealer.

"I hope you have a better working relationship with the police in your own time" he said, but it was said without venom, and John smiled despite himself.

"I do." He bit his lip before sighing and continuing, "Sorry for having wasted your time, but with how things went... We don't have anything to go on."

Sherlock's eyes sparkled for the first time since John got here.

"I wouldn't say that."

**Author's note: Again, apologies for the shorter chapter.**

**I hope you liked it, please review.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's note: I'm glad you like this stories, thanks to everyone who was reviewed or is following it. I would, however, appreciate some more reviews because I am greedy.**

**I don't own anything. **

„No?" John asked, forcing himself to sound neither hopeful nor glad. "What do we have then?"

Sherlock shook his head impatiently, and suddenly John felt again that he was standing in front of a stranger, in front of a man who didn't know him and wasn't supposed to know him.

"Victor always used to brag; when we met about two months ago, he told me he was "important now", although of course I didn't pay much attention to his claim. Now, however – if a dealer" and John found himself relieved at the description "a" instead of "our dealer" – "had killed him because he hadn't paid his bills – he would have done so quickly, efficiently. There was no need to almost disfigure him. He was stabbed at least thirty-four times – I am sure you noticed".

He was sarcastic, almost sardonic, and John was just about to answer when he continued, "That should be enough for you to go on" and turned to leave.

Somehow, it seemed that all Sherlock did in this time was leaving.

John ran after him because he had to, because he could not bear to watch Sherlock leave again.

He grasped his arm and asked, "Aren't you curious who killed Victor?"

Sherlock turned around and mustered him. For a moment, just for a moment, John believed he saw something of the old – new – trust resurface, but then the other man spat, "Why?"

The doctor blinked and slowly let go of Sherlock. "What – "

"Don't play dumb. It's not the first time I asked you; it's not the first time you ran after me. You saved me in that alleyway. You looked after me when I was high. You brought me to this crime scene. I want to know why."

Many thoughts flittered through John's head, but he couldn't think of anything that would make Sherlock stay except the truth.

And then he realized that it might not matter if he told him the truth, because if this was indeed the past, they had already changed the future, and Greg might not like Sherlock, and Sherlock might never get of the drugs, if John left him here, that was. But if he told him what future awaited him... If he told him that he would become a hero (not a hero, not for Sherlock) he might still set things right.

"I know you" he answered simply, allowing Sherlock to figure it out. He would figure it out. There was no question of that.

Sherlock frowned, but then he deduced what was going on (or at least part of it; no one could deduce what he and John had gone through, what had happened) and stated, slowly, carefully, "The one you solve crimes with – it's me."

"Yes". There was nothing else to say.

"We are going to be friends". He said the words like they were a foreign concept, like he couldn't imagine himself having friends, not even in the future, and John found he couldn't answer, so he simply nodded.

Sherlock bit his lip. John didn't know what to say; he wasn't sure the young man believed him. And, to be honest, how could he? Yesterday he hadn't known John existed, and now here he was, telling him that he came from the future and was his best friend.

He wasn't prepared for Sherlock to simply nod after a while and continue, "I know Victor had some debts, however, as I said before, they would hardly have warranted to murder him in such a manner; I did hear, however – "

"Sorry?" John interrupted, because he couldn't believe what he had just heard. Had Sherlock really just accepted what he had told him, no further questions asked?

Sherlock huffed. "I said – "

"I know what you said" John hastened to say, "but you – you are okay with this?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"It's not boring".

John knew Sherlock well enough to realize this was the biggest compliment he could get at the moment, and he smiled, albeit not convinced that the other really did believe him; maybe he simply chose to do so not to be bored. Either way, Sherlock wasn't leaving. For the time being, he was here, and he wasn't shaking much, and he wasn't turning around again. It had to be enough.

John took a deep breath.

"What were you saying?"

Sherlock gave him a half-smirk (although he did roll his eyes) before continuing, "Shinwell told me some time ago that he believed Victor had got into something "over his head". I didn't ask what at the time. I was indisposed."

John chose not to imagine how Sherlock had been "indisposed" and instead said, "We should talk to Shinwell, then".

"At this time of day, he'll be in the pub" the young man said and in the same breath answered John's unspoken question, "now and then he gets a job – just until he's saved enough money to get by for a few months. At the moment he's a waiter in the Three Grenadiers".

John nodded, absentmindedly wondering why Sherlock, his Sherlock, had never mentioned Shinwell. He hadn't really talked to the other man, but it was clear that he'd occasionally looked after Sherlock.

They quickly made their way to the pub, Sherlock leading the way, and John decided they had to get him a coat or at least a jacket as soon as possible. He was shivering.

The pub looked surprisingly nice; remembering the room he'd woken up in, John would have imagined that Shinwell worked in a run-down building. Instead, he worked in a small but well-kept pub.

Which was probably the reason that Sherlock stopped in front of the door instead of briskly strolling in. At least that was what John thought until the young man turned around and the doctor saw into his eyes and realized that he couldn't win this time, that Sherlock was going to get drugs and that nothing would stop him. He shouldn't have been surprised, he should have known that the withdrawal symptoms were getting worse; but for some reason, he had hoped he could hold him, that he could make him see what he could become without the drugs. He just might have destroyed any chance Sherlock could have had, though; he had certainly ruined the first meeting between him and Greg, he reminded himself bitterly.

He looked down at the pavement, defeated.

"I will meet you here" Sherlock announced; in the next moment he was gone, and John wondered if he'd only imagined the hint of shame in his voice.

When John raised his eyes, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, and he could only hope that he would indeed meet him later.

With a sigh he opened the door and entered the pub, looking for Shinwell.

The older man was taking the orders of a couple when he saw John and waved; John waved back and made his way towards the table.

"John" Shinwell greeted him, surprise evident on his face.

"Shinwell" John answered, "Is there somewhere we could talk?"

"Sure. Just wait until I've passed the orders on to the kitchen".

Once he'd done so, he led John into a room at the back of the pub. He turned around and the doctor was taken aback by the concern in his eyes.

"Is this about Sherlock?"

"Not really" John answered, unsure how to break the news of Victor's murder to Shinwell. It was clear that he cared about those he met on the streets, about those whose life he shared to some extent by tending to their wounds and other ailments; John could understand him.

"It's about Victor Trevor" he continued. "He was murdered".

John had been a soldier, and he knew which signs to look for; he saw the flash of disbelief in Shinwell's eyes, followed by shock, then anger, and finally grief before he composed himself and his face turned blank. He'd seen it too often.

"I didn't think it would go this far" he answered, "whenever I – I thought he'd overdose. Eventually".

John wondered if he thought the same about Sherlock, and his heart clenched.

"How did it happen?" Shinwell asked matter-of-factly, and John told him Victor had been stabbed.

"Sherlock told me that Victor had been – working for someone" he added. "He said you could tell me more".

"Where is he?"

Shinwell knew, of course he did; John could see in his eyes that he did. He swallowed and replied, "He had to get some supplies."

"His third dose of the day, I imagine".

John shook his head. "It's his first since he woke up this morning". Then, realizing that he had to explain why he knew this, he added, "I found him lying in the street yesterday. I watched over him to make sure he hadn't taken an overdose".

Shinwell scrutinized him. John had the feeling that he was wondering, just like Sherlock had when waking up, whether he was –

"I believe you" the other man said, softly, and John blinked.

Shinwell shrugged. "Normally, I can tell whether a man is lying, and you aren't. And like I said – I'm glad when someone who isn't me is looking out for them."

"Why are you?" John asked, unable to stop himself before saying, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to – "

Shinwell made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "It's alright. I understand. It's just – It's a long story."

"Same here" John said quietly, and the smiled at each other in the silent understanding that they wouldn't pry.

"Sherlock is going to meet me here, though".

If Shinwell was surprised, he didn't show it. He simply nodded.

"If I understand correctly, you were at the crime scene" he stated. "How did you – "

"It wasn't exactly legal" John hastened to reply; the less Shinwell knew about that, the better. The man was most keeping people living on the streets alive; he didn't need the added stress of knowing how Sherlock and John had broken the law.

"No wonder Sherlock likes you" Shinwell said lightly before continuing, "So you think Victor was murdered by whoever he was working for; you don't believe it could have been a dealer?"

"Sherlock doesn't think so. And I trust him."

Shinwell nodded.

"Victor didn't tell me much about his employer. And what little he told me – he got talkative when he was high." He gave John a look and the doctor nodded to show that he understood. Victor might just have been having hallucinations; but it was clear Sherlock didn't think so, and neither did Shinwell, that much was clear from the way he talked about Victor's claims. Both had known Victor. And Victor was dead.

"He bragged that he was working for an evil genius, someone who would one day control every crime committed in London; he told me he was taking this person's messages to various dealers in town. He was proud of what h did. I didn't pay as much attention to his babbling as I should have".

Shinwell looked down and John, despite the shiver that ran down his spine, felt the need to comfort him.

"It wasn't your fault".

The other man gave him a weak smile.

"I know. But it feels like it. They don't have anyone else to look out for them, you know – or at least they didn't use to".

John barely acknowledged the compliment – normally, he would have protested that he didn't deserve it – but there were too many other thoughts crowding in his mind.

He didn't know if Moriarty was alive in his time.

But it was clear that he was working in this one.

**Author's note: This story took a whole other direction than I thought it would – well, my stories usually do, so I shouldn't be surprised.**

**I didn't plan to bring Shinwell back, but somehow, it happened. **

**Please tell me what you think. It would mean a lot to me.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's note: What would a time travel AU be without Moriarty? Maybe I just love him too much.**

**I don't own anything. **

„John?" Shinwell asked, and only then the doctor realized that the other man had grabbed his arm and was shaking him. He must have been silent for longer than he thought.

"You know something" he stated, and it was useless to try and convince Shinwell that he didn't, because this man spent his time looking after addicts and living on the streets.

"Yes, I do. And the less you know, the better" John replied tiredly.

Shinwell frowned. "This man Victor talked about – did you and your friend – "

"Yes" John said, even though there was so much more he could have explained or should have explained.

The truth was not only didn't he want to, he also didn't know how. How could one explain the impact Moriarty had had on their lives?

_His heart hammering in his chest, stepping out of the shadows, decked in Semtex, Sherlock's face, the one moment of doubt where the consulting detective wondered if he had been Moriarty all along..._

_The surprise and disbelief in Sherlock's eyes when he realized John would indeed gibe his life for him..._

_After they had saved Henry Knight , in their hotel room, Sherlock staring out of the window, lost in his head, and John didn't have to ask who he'd thought Frankland had been, there in Dewer's Hollow, when he'd shaken and screamed at the other man... _

_Moriarty breaking into the Tower of London and the Bank of England and the Pentonville Prison, and John hoping, desperately hoping, even though he knew better, that he would be sent to prison, that it was all over – instead, Moriarty was acquitted and visited Sherlock and the Game began anew, and everyone, everyone calling Sherlock a fraud and a criminal and Mycroft not doing anything and Greg arresting him and John standing in front of St. Bart's, looking up at Sherlock, knowing there was nothing he could do, knowing this was it, it was over, this wonderful crazy life he had known was over..._

_And then the three years living in his memories, limping, alone, wondering how it would be if Sherlock had never jumped..._

_Sherlock coming back, John punching him and throwing him out of his small, ugly flat and then running after him because he couldn't do anything different, and Sherlock telling him that Moriarty was dead. Finally, it was over._

Only it wasn't, and Moriarty was alive and well in the year 1995.

John had always known that he started out young; he hadn't been older than fourteen when he had killed Carl Powers, and he must have been working on his web long before Sherlock ever learnt of his existence.

He couldn't be as powerful now as he would eventually become, but he was still a dangerous enemy.

If Victor had been his informant and Moriarty had considered him a risk – it made sense. It all made sense.

And that meant that, not only had John dragged Sherlock into a crime scene at a time when he shouldn't have been interested in solving crimes yet –

But he might also have put him on Moriarty's radar.

Too soon. Much too soon.

Moriarty wasn't the foe they would encounter yet, because he couldn't be; no matter if psychopath or not, people changed. But he was already working on his web – if it was indeed Moriarty, a small, irrational part of John clung to the hope that this was all just a coincidence – and Sherlock was... Sherlock was a drug addict who didn't think he had a future ahead of him, who only lived for his next fix. He wasn't the consulting detective who would capture Moriarty's attention, he wasn't the consulting detective who would beat him.

If they went up against Moriarty now –

They would lose.

Unless –

Unless John threw caution to the wind, simply tried to get as close to Moriarty as he could, and killed him.

At least Sherlock wouldn't meet him then. At least Sherlock would be safe from him, now and in the future.

But...

What if (and John couldn't say whether he should hate himself for the thought or not) would all changes be positive?

He had already changed Sherlock's and Greg's first meeting, and he was scared of the consequences.

Moriarty had brought pain to the lives of many, it was true.

But at the same time –

Sherlock had been cold, seemingly uncaring, when John had met him. In a way just like the young addict who was currently busy buying cocaine. He had started to change after he met the doctor (if John thought so himself); but the real turning point –

Well, not really a turning point. But the truth was that Sherlock had tried to prove he had a heart more and more often since he'd returned.

John didn't need any proof of that, had never needed any proof. But the consulting detective tried talking to him when he was upset or sad these days, he tried not to scare witnesses and sometimes (not always, because he was still Sherlock Holmes and John wouldn't have him any other way) he tried to be polite to strangers, even if he did consider them idiots.

Sherlock had never said so, but John knew this had to do with Moriarty, knew that Sherlock had seen his polar opposite in the consulting criminal and wanted to prove to the World, and maybe, in his darkest moments, to himself, that he wasn't a psychopath.

John hadn't said anything because there was no need to; he understood Sherlock only too well. With a shudder, he remembered Moran's capture.

John shook his head, he had to focus. At times like these, he wondered if he should build his own mind palace; then again, if the look Shinwell gave him was anything to go by, he was already good enough at getting lost in his head without one.

"I don't know what he did" the other man said, slowly, "but I think you need to sit down. I'll get you a glass of water".

John suspected he was trying to give him space rather than bring him something to drink, but he was grateful all the same.

He could try to kill Moriarty. If he succeeded, Sherlock would never meet the consulting criminal. But he would also never become the person who had gone through three years of loneliness and constant danger to keep his friends safe.

As much as John wanted to believe that he was simply being selfish, he couldn't say what his Sherlock would have done, had he been in the same position.

It would have been logical to think he would have killed Moriarty without regrets, but John had known him long enough to realize that, despite often stating the contrary, Sherlock often, perhaps too often, thought with his heart. The heart that so many people didn't believe existed.

He would probably be angry at Sherlock for having ruined his first encounter with their DI, the doctor thought and smiled briefly, before he wondered whether he would recognize John at all, whether he hadn't already made too many changes.

John took a deep breath. He couldn't worry about that now. Not when Moriarty was out there and had already killed one of Sherlock's... acquaintances, and he might have heard that two people who had nothing to do with the police had shown up at the crime scene. John was certain he had always had his informants at Scotland Yard.

He didn't know how to get home, he didn't know how he'd come here. He didn't even know if he truly was here, to be honest. But he had to concentrate on what he could do, rather than on what he wished he could, and this meant solving the case.

With Sherlock's help. If he returned.

John felt guilty for wondering if he would; he couldn't help it; but at the same time, he couldn't pretend that this was his Sherlock because it wasn't.

Maybe he'd already got as high as he had last night. Maybe he'd forgotten all about him.

The doctor sighed. He'd give him another half hour, he decided; then he'd go look for him.

A glass of water appeared in his line of vision, and he looked up to find Shinwell giving him a weak smile. He smiled back and nodded his thanks.

"Ready to tell me yet?" the other man said, sitting down opposite John. "So you encountered this guy before."

"We did" John said quietly, "And he was – he is – the most dangerous man in London".

"But you beat him?"

John was silent, and not only because he was trying to come up with an answer without revealing too much; but because he didn't know if he could say that they had beat Moriarty. Sherlock had won, but he had lost three years of his life in the process. John might as well say the same.

Finally, he nodded and Shinwell shot him a sceptical look, but decided to change the subject.

"You are waiting for Sherlock?"

"He said he'd come back" John replied, aware how weak it sounded.

Shinwell tilted his head. "I know it sounds strange, but – you were the first. The first one he ever brought to me."

"I saved his life". It was the only explanation; all the friendship, all the worry, John had for Sherlock – it was one-sided. The Sherlock he was dealing with wasn't his best friend yet, although it was difficult to remember, even with the drugs.

"That's not all". Shinwell drummed his fingers on the table. "He cares about you".

John wished it was true, wished that the bond the shared somehow worked in any time, but it was ridiculous, utterly ridiculous.

"I mean – I know it sounds crazy, but – that boy... I've known him for three years, and yet you have done more for him than – he stayed with you. You met less than twenty-four hours ago, and now you're solving crimes together. I couldn't imagine him following someone else. I couldn't even imagine him talking to someone else. Victor only talked to him when they were both high, and Sherlock didn't listen to him. He doesn't listen to me, either, but he comes by from time to time, if only because he's hurt or sick. But you..."

Shinwell stopped and looked down at his hand; somewhere during his speech, he had stopped drumming his fingers and instead pressed down his palm on the wooden table. His knuckles were white.

"You really care about them, don't you?" John asked quietly.

Shinwell looked in his eyes.

"Someone has to".

"Yes" John confirmed, thinking of a man who would stand in a lab fifteen years from now, "someone has to".

"He will come back" Shinwell suddenly said, "for you, he will. He turned around for you once already, didn't he?"

"How did you – "

He shrugged. "Like I said, three years. And if I know anything about Sherlock Holmes, it's that he never admits that he's done the right thing".

It was a depressing thought to say the least, but John chose not to comment on it. It was good to know that he had been right and that Sherlock had indeed a friend or something like it.

"He's going to be high when he returns, you know that?"

"Of course" John answered. But he still preferred a high Sherlock Holmes to anyone else.

And maybe, just maybe, this Sherlock believed him they were friends.

Suddenly, John wasn't worried anymore.

Because if there was one thing he had learned from this... this experience –

It was that they would always find their way back to each other.

**Author's note: Mostly introspection, another reoccurring theme in my fanfics. I think I've grown too fond of Shinwell. **

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's note: I can promise a different point of view in this chapter, another thing I love to do.**

**I have followers!**

**And I got more reviews for the last chapter! Thank you so much. It means a lot. **

**Shorter chapter again, I fear.**

**I don't own anything, please review. **

He managed to bring John to the pub before the withdrawal symptoms got too strong to ignore; in fact he had been feeling them since he woke up this morning in a hotel room, the small and ordinary but somehow extraordinary ex-army doctor watching over him.

Sherlock couldn't say why he'd stayed then. He didn't talk to people, and he certainly didn't listen to people. Most of them were idiots, and he had never had a high tolerance for idiots. The last person he had talked to had been Mycroft, and that had been before he'd left university after his first semester.

They had been close, once, when they had been children and Mycroft had told him all there was to know about pirates. But that had been a long time ago, and his brother had chosen to rule the country, leaving Sherlock behind in their big, empty mansion to go to university.

It didn't matter. Nothing mattered.

Sherlock had known from an early age that no one would ever understand him; not even Mycroft knew how he saw the World. The connections he made, the way he could concentrate on a single leaf on a tree if he wanted, the outside World fading away. The times when thought after thought rushed through his mind, the whirlwind never ending, impossible to control, until he was ready to scream, but didn't, because Mummy didn't like them to scream and Mycroft would only see it as a sign of weakness.

He was different. He wanted to be different. He didn't want anyone by his side. Alone protected him.

Life on the street could be dangerous, but Sherlock didn't care. He preferred it to Mycroft's condescending advice. Their father had left the family when Sherlock was fifteen – they hadn't seen much of him before, so it hadn't made much of a difference – and his mother had died shortly after he'd started university, so there was only his brother, and as Mycroft liked to say, "Caring is not an advantage". It had been months since Sherlock had last seen one of his brother's spies, or noticed a security camera following him, so he was finally completely alone.

It was all he'd ever wanted. The cocaine helped him focus, made the whirlwind in his mind stop for a few hours, and he always managed to obtain enough money to buy more.

He didn't need anything else. He didn't want anything else.

That three drug dealers – or, rather, one drug dealer, the guy he slept with (not that they would admit it) and a bouncer from a local club) had decided to "teach him a lesson" when he had refused to pay more than the price they had agreed on beforehand was unfortunate, but he would have handled it like he handled anything else, by simply buying more cocaine. Idiots as they were, they wouldn't have killed him. Not even they wanted to go to prison for murder.

And then John Watson stumbled into the alleyway.

Sherlock had wanted to leave him behind; if he decided to help strangers who were being attacked in dark streets it was none of his business. Normally he would have done so without regret.

He couldn't say why he hadn't left. He couldn't say why he'd helped him up and brought him to the nearest main street. The man could obviously walk on his own, and he didn't appear to be injured. If he'd left him lying in the alleyway, he would eventually have got up.

And yet he had hauled him to his feet.

And then he had talked to him.

Sherlock hadn't been intrigued by anything in a very long time. There was nothing that could hold his attention, nothing that could occupy his mind; usually.

But John Watson had known his name, even though they had never met each other before. Even if Sherlock had been high, he would have remembered. He always remembered.

Nobody knew, but he did; he remembered Mycroft's stare the last time they had seen each other; he remembered Shinwell's shaking hands, his mumbled curses as he'd looked after Sherlock after his overdose and the suspicion that, despite all his efforts, someone still cared about him; he remembered the man about fifty who'd thought he could take advantage of him as he'd lain in a corner and who he'd knocked out.

But he had never seen John Watson in his life, and yet the man knew about him and his brother. He was a puzzle. A puzzle Sherlock couldn't solve yet.

It was _fascinating_.

It was fascinating because John Watson was so easy to read, and yet there was more to him than that. It was fascinating because he obviously cared about Sherlock.

Then Sherlock realized that it didn't matter, because he had already chosen what to do with his life, so he'd left.

He'd tried to leave.

Because John had collapsed, and he had turned around without knowing why and had brought him to Shinwell. He didn't have friends, and he didn't trust people, but if he did, Shinwell would be the one person he'd trust.

As he'd watched him take John's pulse, he had decided that he would bring him to a main street. This whole situation was too confusing, especially since he'd finally found a way to quiet his mind.

So he'd got high.

It hadn't been an overdose, but it had been close, and yet he had once again seen and remembered everything.

At first, when John had brought him to the hotel, he'd thought he'd figured out what the doctor wanted, and the last thing he remembered before losing consciousness was a twinge of disappointment.

Then he'd woken up and realized John had indeed looked after him, and he had been more fascinated than ever.

Especially after he had told him he came to the future.

The phone he had shown him was definitely a more advanced type than he'd seen, but he couldn't believe him. John couldn't expect that of him.

But he seemed convinced. And his explanation at least wasn't boring.

It was the most interesting thing that had happened to Sherlock in years.

That was the real reason he had accompanied him to the café and the crime scene, of course. He didn't care about the strange ex-army doctor.

Something about the crime scene, though...

He wasn't surprised that Victor was dead, although he hadn't expected him to be murdered.

But that wasn't what had gnawed on him since they had entered the house.

The experience had been exhilarating.

Sherlock had always been interested in crimes, ever since he had read about the death of Carl Powers and realized that something wasn't right, that someone must have killed him. He had never considered solving crimes for a living, though.

Then again, he had never considered doing anything for a living, really.

And now John had come along and somehow changed everything, and it was difficult to explain.

John acted strangely around the frankly quite dull DS, and Sherlock filed away the information for later.

First, he demanded answers. There was a reason John had brought him with him, there was a reason he tried to prevent him from getting high, there was a reason he cared. Sherlock couldn't figure it out and it was driving him crazy.

The thought that he could be John's friend, the one he solved crimes with, had never entered his head because he didn't have friends and would never have friends. But John was adamant, and Sherlock, to his surprise, found himself wondering if having a friend like this would be such a bad thing.

He still needed cocaine, though, so he left John to talk to Shinwell.

For the first time, he felt something like guilt as he injected the drug, and for the first time in a long time he was careful to take an amount that still allowed him to walk straight.

As he returned to the pub, he realized why. He couldn't explain it –

But, even if he had known nothing about their impossible future, he would still have returned.

**Author's note: Young Sherlock... He's not easy to write. I hope I did him justice.**

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's note: The plot thickens... hopefully. Something will happen in this chapter, I think.**

**I have no idea how much longer this story is going to be. My fics have a tendency to become very long indeed, and I guess this one won't be much different.**

**I don't own anything, please review. Pretty please? The last time my begging worked, so...**

John was waiting in front of the pub, but he wasn't worried. Somehow, he knew Sherlock would come back because he had to, because this was how things worked.

Maybe he was going crazy. Then again, with everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours, he might as well already have gone crazy; maybe he wasn't aware of it. Maybe some strange experiment of Sherlock's or another one of the consulting detective's stunts had finally caused him to flip and he was sitting in a room in a mental hospital, unaware of what was going on around him. Maybe he was lying in a coma after another hunt; maybe he was severely injured.

Only...

To think he was in a coma, to think all of this was just his subconscious trying to deal with it all, it felt too simple.

And nothing having to do with Sherlock Holmes had ever been simple.

John had always trusted his instincts. And every instinct he had told him that this was real, that Sherlock was real.

He didn't know how he knew, but he knew that he had to look after him, just like he had always done, and that he would come back.

Sherlock had come back from the dead – he wouldn't disappear now, even if this was the past, even if he wasn't the man he was going to become yet, even if he had left to buy drugs.

John had to admit that standing alone on the street had some side effects, though.

Because, if he really started to think about it...

This whole situation was simply too confusing.

Had he just changed Sherlock's life? If so – had he changed his own, too? And were they about to chase down Moriarty years before anyone knew of his existence?

John sighed and admitted to himself that he wasn't as intelligent as Sherlock and couldn't figure out what was going on. He would just have to deal on his own, while keeping Sherlock of the drugs and Moriarty from killing more people, of course.

He resigned himself to waiting.

Of course this had to be the moment when the limousine (a little smaller than what he was accustomed to) stopped in front of him.

Somehow, after the little he'd heard from Sherlock, he'd expected Mycroft not to watch over his brother; as far as he had been able to tell, the elder Holmes hadn't even talked to Sherlock in years.

Which didn't stop him from kidnapping anyone who showed an interest in Sherlock, apparently.

Before anyone could get out of the limousine, John turned around and sprinted back into the pub, dragging Shinwell into the back room.

"What – "

"Shinwell, listen. If Sherlock shows up, don't let him leave, alright? I'll be back soon".

Before Shinwell could demand an explanation, John went out again; Mycroft didn't appreciate being kept waiting, and he was sure his younger self wasn't much different.

When he stepped out of the door, a young man was waiting for him; naturally, Anthea couldn't be old enough to work for Mycroft yet. He was of a distinctly Greek appearance, and John had to admit it was strange to see any assistant of Mycroft's without a blackberry in his hands.

John nodded, suppressing a sigh.

"I assume you want me to come with you?"

The young man, who had just opened his mouth to tell him so, closed it again and nodded, gesturing towards the car. Before he could say anything, though, John had already opened the door and slipped inside.

The other man, looking even more confused, followed him and the car drove off.

John didn't ask where they were taking him because it would be useless. Instead, he asked the man his name.

If he had been confused before, now he was struck speechless. He needed a few moments to compose himself before he managed, "Melas".

John nodded and looked out of the window.

He could almost feel Melas' confusion – he was sure most people he kidnapped had questions or at least reacted appropriately – but he didn't care. He just wanted to get this over with so he could return to the pub.

The car halted in an abandoned warehouse, naturally; it wasn't one John was familiar with, though.

Mycroft was waiting for them, dressed in a suit like always. But John (and maybe he should have wondered when he came to know every aspect of the Holmes' life so well) realized that it wasn't yet made of the expensive material he was used too.

Also, Sherlock had been right; Mycroft had always struggled with his weight. He was exactly overweight, but he certainly wasn't thin either.

The strangest thing was that his umbrella was missing, though. John couldn't recall a single time where Mycroft hadn't had an umbrella with him. The doctor had always suspected that it contained some form of weapon.

The elder Holmes was mustering him, deducing him like his younger brother had done; but of course he wouldn't be able to tell he came from the future.

John decided he didn't want to wait until the other man spoke and said, "Mycroft".

He could clearly remember the one time he had managed to surprise the British Government – when he'd stormed into the Diogenes Club after he'd realized it must have been Mycroft who had told Moriarty Sherlock's life story. He had done it again, now (or from Mycroft's point of view, for the first time); the elder Holmes raised an eyebrow and assumed an expression that told John he hadn't expected him to know his name.

"Since you know my name and we both know there exists no Peter Jones who corresponds with your description, would you kindly tell me your name?"

John realized he couldn't do that. Expecting Sherlock – well, not expecting, but hoping – to believe him that he came from the future was one thing. Mycroft – he would never get Mycroft to believe him.

And maybe he didn't want to.

His relationship, for lack of a better word, with the elder Holmes had always been complicated; while John had understood that their childhood couldn't have exactly been easy, he had never been able to grasp why Mycroft had left his younger brother behind. He had spent most of his younger years looking after his sister – first to shield her from their father, then to keep her of the booze – and simply couldn't comprehend why one would abandon one's younger sibling like that.

He was sure Sherlock had looked up to Mycroft at one point; he was sure his older brother had been his confidante; he was sure that Sherlock had taken his brother's abandonment hard. He didn't blame Mycroft for Sherlock's drug addiction, he didn't blame him for the way Sherlock's life had turned out; how could he; if Mycroft had been around more, there was every reason to believe that John and Sherlock would never have met. But he blamed him for not being there for his brother, for not trying harder to get him of the drugs –

And he blamed him for telling Moriarty all he needed to know to ruin Sherlock.

It was the one thing he would never be able to forgive him. He didn't care that he didn't have any right to demand an apology; he didn't care that Sherlock was apparently indifferent to his brother's betrayal; he would never be able to forgive anyone for betraying Sherlock Holmes. It was as simple as that.

This Mycroft, though, this Mycroft hadn't betrayed Sherlock yet, and for one crazy moment, John considered telling him everything and begging him not to let Moriarty go, but despite the fact that he would probably end up in a mental hospital, he couldn't say what this might mean for the future. Much as he still doubted he had indeed travelled through time, he couldn't risk Mycroft whisking Sherlock away. He was too selfish for that.

"I would rather not tell you" John finally answered when he realized Mycroft was waiting for a reply.

Mycroft drummed the fingers of his right hand against his leg, and John wondered if he would later buy an umbrella just to hold something in his hand, when the other man said, slowly, "I do not think you realize – "

"Look" John said tiredly, "I will not tell you anything. I have to get back to your brother. Someone has to take care of him".

For once, it looked like he had genuinely hurt Mycroft, and the doctor reminded himself that this wasn't the British Government he was sued to; this was a younger, more open Mycroft, a Mycroft who, despite acting like he didn't care, still had his younger brother supervised.

"And what makes you think you can take care of him?" Mycroft's voice was controlled again, calm, his eyes hard.

"I do not think I can" John answered honestly; even though he had kept Sherlock mostly of the drugs and had brought him to a crime scene, he was aware that Sherlock wasn't the Sherlock he had met yet, and that the young man therefore didn't need him the way he would. "But I have to try".

With these words, he turned around, waving to Melas; but just as he had taken a few steps towards the limousine, Mycroft called after him. Something the Mycroft John knew would never have done.

"I – Please, do try."

He didn't say anything else, but his intent was clear, and John turned around and nodded before getting into the limousine.

He didn't doubt that Mycroft would continue to try to discover his identity, but he didn't think he was likely to succeed. If there was one option the British Government wouldn't consider, it was time travel.

Melas didn't say anything, and John was grateful for it. He needed time to order his thoughts. If any of the books he'd read or the movies and shows he'd watched were right, he had just changed yet another point in the future – he had met Mycroft years before he was supposed to, too.

John wondered what Sherlock would have done in the same situation. Knowing him, he would probably have been delighted about the puzzle. John wasn't sure how much more he could take, though; all this worrying about time travel and paradoxes and futures made his head ache.

"It is important that you understand – " Melas started to say about half-way to the pub, and John shook his head.

"I know. You'll keep an eye on me and Sherlock". He didn't continue, because the thought that Mycroft only might have put surveillance on his brother again because John showed up and someone caught a glimpse of them from a security camera by accident...

John shook his head and concentrated on finding Sherlock.

Thankfully, he didn't have to, because, just like he had hoped, the young man was waiting for him in front of the pub.

**Author's note: Hello, Mycroft. Fancy seeing you here. Nice of you to show up – this also seems to be a "other characters from the ACD canon show up"-story. Interesting. **

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's note: I got more reviews! I'm so happy! Please continue to make me happy. **

**So now they are on a case involving Moriarty... the upside of writing a fanfiction that takes place several years in the past. God I love it.**

**I don't own anything. **

Sherlock was surprised at himself when he realized that it upset him not to see John waiting for him in front of the pub, even though his thoughts were once again pleasantly numbed by the cocaine. He didn't care about anyone, he didn't have friends, and yet somehow, he was wondering why this strange man he had met only a day ago hadn't waited for him.

"He stormed in, told me to keep an eye on you until he returned, and then he got in a limousine. I swear he's even more difficult to figure out than you" Shinwell said, appearing behind him and shaking his head.

Mycroft had had John kidnapped, then. The thought that his brother still cared enough to do this stirred unwelcome feelings, and Sherlock was quick to bury them. He had cut all ties with his brother, deliberately and finally, and he didn't want to think about him.

Shinwell looked him up and down.

"You are high".

Sherlock answered "Obviously", although he was curious what could have made Shinwell break his unwritten rule and say out loud that he was on drugs. The other man never commented on the state of the person who came to him, which was one of the reasons quite a lot of people did.

"Normally, you are much higher at this time of day. John was telling the truth, wasn't he, when he told me this was your first fix?"

"Yes. He was."

"Whoever he is, and for whatever reason he's hanging around, he is good for you" Shinwell said, his tone surprisingly caring, and Sherlock didn't know what to reply. He wasn't used to anyone caring about him, and now he not only had to deal with an ex-army doctor who kept coming back into his life, but also Shinwell had suddenly decided to talk with him about his addiction.

He had to admit he wasn't bored, at least.

At this moment, he saw a limousine come around the corner and almost sighed with relief. He had never been comfortable during talks that required sentiment.

Shinwell slipped back into the pub; apparently he thought Sherlock and John needed some time alone. Sherlock was glad – he wouldn't have wanted to continue this conversation with the doctor present.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow when John got out of the limousine. He didn't ask and John didn't tell him where he had been – they both knew he knew anyway – but the doctor could tell that he was surprised Mycroft cared enough to interrogate the man who had dragged him to a crime scene.

John took in his appearance and managed to withhold a sigh. He had known that Sherlock would buy and consummate drugs, but still – seeing him high – he would never get used to it. He desperately hoped he wouldn't have to. He still had no idea how to get home. And of course they had to deal with the case first...

John's heart sank even further when he remembered.

The crime scene.

Moriarty.

And John was no match for Moriarty, not without Sherlock, his Sherlock.

How was he supposed to tell Sherlock what he knew? How was he supposed to make him understand that he couldn't, shouldn't, help John to go up against Moriarty?

The consulting criminal would destroy him if he tried. Sherlock was addicted to cocaine, he was alone, he was vulnerable. How could John ask him to go on a suicide mission with him?

"What is it?" Sherlock demanded. "You are obviously worried about something".

John should have known that he wouldn't keep his secret for long. He didn't know what to say.

Sherlock sighed. "John, please, don't insult my mental capacities by pretending you don't know what I am talking about. Shinwell told you something, and we both know he'll happily tell me, should I care to ask."

He was right, of course. Shinwell wouldn't lie to Sherlock. John took a deep breath.

"I think I know who killed Victor..." he said, slowly, "and it's someone I – we – know; I mean, someone we will know, I – "

"I understand" Sherlock cut him off. "I can only assume he was a murderer – is going to be a murderer in the future as well".

John nodded because he found that he couldn't speak. Sherlock was talking about Moriarty like he was a normal murderer, a normal criminal (and he had long stopped caring that he used phrases like "normal criminal") and John didn't know how to correct him, how to make him see...

"Is he going to kill someone you care about?" Sherlock asked, as direct as always, and John couldn't breathe.

_Is he going to kill someone you care about?_

As if this whole situation wasn't difficult enough.

John forced himself to answer, "Something like it."

When Sherlock opened his mouth to ask – of course he would, he wasn't the Sherlock who could read and understand John's emotions yet – the doctor added, "And I don't want to talk about it".

There must have been something in his voice or expression that made even this Sherlock understand that he wouldn't answer any questions.

He frowned and looked away, asking in a hard voice, "Can you at least tell me his name, then?"

John flinched. He should have known Sherlock would be annoyed; and they didn't have the connection they should have, would have. Sherlock, he reminded himself again, didn't have the trust in him he would hopefully (if he hadn't ruined everything, if this wasn't – no, he wouldn't allow himself to think like that) one day come to have, and why should he believe that he didn't tell him to save him from the truth, the hurt a little longer?

"Moriarty".

He had tried to say the name confidently, like it wasn't important, but he only managed to whisper it; however, it sounded deafening to his ears.

Sherlock raised his eyes.

"Moriarty?" He sounded interested; he sounded curious. Just like he had when they had heard about Moriarty for the first time – the night John had shot Jeff Hope.

"Yes. Jim Moriarty. He's building his web as we speak."

"His web?" Sherlock's eyes glistened, and John swallowed.

"He is going to be responsible for half that is secret and almost all that is criminal in this great city" he answered, recalling the words Mycroft used when he had come by after Sherlock's funeral to let him know that he was welcome to stay in 221B and that he had as far failed to uncover any evidence that Jim Moriarty had ever existed. He was surprised that he did. At the time, he hadn't paid attention to what Mycroft was saying. He hadn't paid much attention to anything.

"Interesting" Sherlock mumbled, and John flinched, ignoring the urge to yell, to tell Sherlock that this was the last word he wanted to use in describing Moriarty.

"Anyway" he hastened to say instead, "He won't be easy to find. Maybe we could ask around, maybe ask your –" he stopped because he'd forgotten that Sherlock didn't have his network yet, but the young man nodded.

"I think I know a few people we could ask" he said. "A web..." he mumbled as he turned around and led the way, "maybe I should build an informant network of my own".

John realized he had got lost in his head again and wasn't talking to him, but he smiled.

Even though this comment raised another question.

If he had somehow given Sherlock the idea of building up his homeless network –

Had this happened before? Had another future version of him travelled to the past and somehow none of his friends had remembered it? But, then why had Sherlock remembered to build his network? If they did remember, on the other hand – why hadn't they mentioned it?

Just when he'd thought things couldn't get more complicated.

He suddenly realized that it was after one pm, and that he hadn't eaten since breakfast. And he didn't even know when Sherlock had last eaten. John decided that he would make his break "no meals during cases" rule (he might not even have that rule yet, so he might succeed). He grabbed Sherlock's arm from behind.

He wasn't prepared for the young man to flinch and wrench his arm away from John.

He should have known that Sherlock wasn't used to anyone touching him unexpectedly – and that, if it happened, it was rarely because that person meant well. Still – John had always been allowed to touch Sherlock; to take his pulse, to check his temperature, to make him go a little slower so he could keep up at days on which his leg was troubling him again; and this – to watch him flinch away – hurt almost as much as seeing him high again.

"I'm sorry" he said quietly, almost whispering, and tried to ignore the well-concealed panic in Sherlock's eyes as he turned around, before he came out of his head and remembered who he was with.

The young man waved a dismissive hand in the air. "It's alright. I am not – " he broke off and asked, "What do you want?"

John decided to ignore the implications of the unfinished sentence and answered, "We should get lunch". When Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, John continued, "No, Sherlock. You haven't eaten in God knows how long. We are going to get lunch, and that is final".

To his surprise, Sherlock closed his mouth and nodded, although he wasn't looking very pleased.

The doctor was baffled. He had known Sherlock for years, and he had never really got him to do something he was against – at least not after much coaxing. And now he insisted once and Sherlock acquiesced?

It was only when they were seated in a nice café (whose waitress pointedly paid no attention to Sherlock, but John preferred this to suspicious looks) and Sherlock grumbled his choice and let him order, that John realized.

It had been foolish of him to believe that, even if he got Sherlock to trust him on some level, their dynamic would be like the one he was used to. For this Sherlock, he was a middle-aged man, not his five-year-older best friend; if anything, he was more like a –

He was more like a father figure. Or a big brother. And considering he had always had to act somewhat like a parent around the consulting detective, it wasn't a surprise that Sherlock should could to accept him as such, with their age difference so big.

Despite everything – the time travel, the fact that he couldn't recreate something that didn't even exist yet – it left a bitter taste in John's mouth, because it told him once again that Sherlock had mostly grown up alone without any guidance whatsoever.

At least he got him to eat, though – and the whole plate at that. He was strangely proud of himself.

As they were waiting for their lunch, he asked, "Who are we going to see, anyway?"

"Langdale Pike" Sherlock answered, and John blinked. He hadn't imagined that he would hear a name he was actually familiar with.

"You know him?" Sherlock asked because the doctor hadn't been able to hide his surprise, and John nodded.

"Yes. I know him" he replied, keeping his tone neutral.

Langdale Pike. That reptile. Sherlock had used him now and then to gather information (which involved going to his club, where he spent his days reading a paper and looking out the window) – when even his homeless network came up with nothing – because Langdale Pike was the King of Gossip. He knew everything there was to know about anyone of any importance in the city – half-truths and rumours and whispers – and even though John knew from Sherlock that he never caused any harm with his knowledge, other than Irene Adler or Charles Augustus Milverton, he had never liked gossip and the people that revelled in it.

He was somewhat surprised that Sherlock knew him already; Langdale had never seemed the type to live on the street or take drugs.

"We know each other from university" Sherlock said, reading his thoughts. "He was isolated." John heard the unspoken _Just like me_. "He doesn't – care" the young man added, and John was sure he had wanted to say "judge" but let it go.

They didn't talk any more about Langdale Pike until they had finished lunch and Sherlock once more led the way towards the city centre, making John realize that apparently the King of Gossip had always resided in his club.

**Author's note: Let's play "How many more allusions to the ACD canon can I put in this fic before you all grow bored", shall we?**

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's note: I'm so glad that people keep following this story, especially since writing a younger Sherlock isn't that easy. I'm having a lot of fun, though, so the response to this fic makes me very happy indeed.**

**I don't own anything.**

Langdale Pike indeed sat at the same window in the same club; he must have done so ever since he had finished his degree. John had never figured out what he was doing for a living, and he had never asked, but he certainly couldn't work long hours.

When he'd seen the door of the familiar club and realized they would have to get in somehow, Sherlock had once again realized what he was thinking and quickly explained that he'd visited Langdale a few times in the past and that the porter was used to him. John had not asked (and it was starting to worry him, that there was so much this Sherlock and he didn't talk about) but he was rather sure that he'd asked Langdale for money at some point.

As Sherlock had predicted, they got in the door without any questions asked; and while John could feel the porter's inquisitive gaze on his back, the man didn't say anything. Sherlock quickly went over to Langdale's seat where he was reading his paper, just like any other time John had seen him.

"Langdale" Sherlock nodded.

The other man looked up and laid his paper on the seat beside him.

"Sherlock". He gave them both a polite smile, while his eyes travelled slowly up and down John's body; he didn't even try to hide his curiosity.

"This is John Watson" Sherlock introduced him and hesitated before adding, "my colleague".

"Friend" John corrected, automatically, because it had been a long time since he had cared about what other people might think if he called himself Sherlock's friend in front of them; and he had to admit that hearing Sherlock refer to him as "colleague" had given him a sting.

Langdale replied "I see" although it wasn't quite clear what he meant. He shot John a rather hostile look, and since the doctor found he didn't like his past self more than his future self, and Langdale had never been fond of him either, it was comforting to find that some things didn't change.

And Langdale certainly hadn't changed much; he wouldn't even gain weight in the years to come, and the last time John had seen him in the future, his hair hadn't even started to go gray. There was a slight but still noticeable difference, however; Langdale was easier to read. Until now, John hadn't been able to say what he was thinking or feeling; now –

Langdale didn't dislike him because he thought he was boring or not a good source for gossip. Langdale didn't like him because, just as Sherlock had said, he'd always been isolated and had found a kindred spirit in Sherlock Holmes. Before John had come along and Sherlock had found a friend.

He cleared his throat and said, more politely than he would have done before this realization, "Nice to meet you. Sherlock said you could help us".

"Help you?" It was clear that Langdale didn't know what to think; he had probably expected Sherlock to ask for money and was confused as to why he would bring John with him.

"We need information" Sherlock replied matter-of-factly.

"Information?" Langdale repeated, his surprise evident, and John looked at Sherlock to see a flash of hurt in his eyes. He wanted to say something, to explain, but told himself now wasn't the time or the place. This was Sherlock's informant (somehow, he still couldn't bring himself to think "friend") and Langdale would answer Sherlock's questions much more enthusiastic than John's, anyway.

"Have you ever heard about Jim Moriarty?"

Langdale flinched; it was the first time John had seen him uncomfortable.

"You have" Sherlock stated.

"Sherlock..." Langdale answered earnestly. "Believe me: this isn't a fight you want to take on. I've only heard rumours, here and there, not more than a whisper of his name, really; but it was enough to realize that he is the most dangerous man in London, or will be soon." He looked at John. "Was it you who put the idea in his head?"

John was about to answer that he hadn't when he realized he didn't want to lie. And then he didn't know what to say. Especially since it seemed that Langdale was worried about Sherlock and John could understand him all too well.

"Nobody puts any ideas in my head". Sherlock sounded insulted, and John couldn't help the small smile that spread over his face. Langdale must have seen it, because his eyes narrowed and he once again mustered the two, convinced that there was something going on he didn't know about. John had never doubted that he was intelligent, and this was another proof.

"How did you even..." Langdale trailed off, apparently wondering which question to ask first. John couldn't blame him; he was sure that, if he had been in the same situation, he would have quite a few questions himself.

"How did you cross Moriarty's path?" was what the other man finally decided on. John wondered if he simply hadn't dared to ask the question he was obviously most interested in – how Sherlock and John had met, and why they were going after Moriarty to begin with – or if this was truly his primary concern.

"He killed an acquaintance of mine" Sherlock answered, and John realized with a jolt that the young man hadn't even questioned his theory that Moriarty had killed Victor or had had him killed before accepting it as the only logical solution. It was a strange feeling, and John couldn't say whether this was a good or a bad development. He wanted, needed Sherlock to become the consulting detective he would meet; and if there was something Sherlock Holmes had always been, it was self-sufficient. Most of the time, John suspected that he didn't need him as a "conductor of light" but simply liked having him around, and he was fine, in fact more than fine, with it.

This Sherlock – he was able to deduce people, but he wasn't used to doing it to solve murders, to do anything with it.

"I am not surprised, if what I have heard is true" he replied.

He paused so long that Sherlock, impatiently, asked, "And?"

Langdale sighed.

"Sherlock, we both know I have never given you advice. I never give anyone advice. I will, however, do it now. We both know you won't follow it." He was earnest, worried (Sherlock apparently didn't realize it, but for John it was clear as day) and the doctor decided that he would try and be more polite to him the next time they met.

"Don't try to find him. He is dangerous, and you are – " He stopped abruptly, and John saw Sherlock's eyes harden. He appreciated what Langdale was trying to do, but the young addict wouldn't listen to him, not after this unfinished sentence. Sherlock only acted like he didn't care what other people thought about him, but in truth...

John didn't like the implication much, either, but he had to admit Langdale had a point.

The other man sighed, realizing that he had made a mistake, and continued as if he had never given Sherlock his well-meant but ineffective advice, "Fenchurch Street. I hear that's where he has his... office".

Moriarty hadn't had an office before, or rather, John had never heard about him having an office before. This wasn't the consulting criminal he knew yet, albeit dangerous enough, and it probably had made sense to him to have an office where people could reach him when he'd started out. He had hired Victor Trevor as an informant, after all, and the man had bragged about his job when he was high. Even someone like Moriarty had had to learn a few things, apparently.

"His office?"

"People who want to use... who need his special kind of service need to find him somewhere, Sherlock".

Right, John reminded himself. Few people had mobile phones yet. It was easy to forget that he was in the past when he was on a case with Sherlock, even if Sherlock wasn't the consulting detective yet.

They didn't stay long after that; Sherlock said goodbye and turned around, once again leaving John to thank Langdale.

He didn't say anything but gave him a look that John interpreted as "look after him."

He would. It was all he'd done since they had met. And he wouldn't have it any other way.

"So..." John said, slowly, "Fenchurch Street".

"I know – "

"Yes, Sherlock, you know every street in London. I was merely repeating it to myself" John interrupted him and smiled a weak smile.

"I forgot" Sherlock replied, shrugging his shoulders, and the doctor tried to understand that of course Sherlock would forget that he was his best friend from the future from time to time, how could he not? It was simply too incredible.

"What now?" the young man asked. "I presume we are not going to simply knock on his door".

"No" John said, "definitely not". Although it was tempting to try to kill the consulting criminal – make sure he and Sherlock would never meet at all – there was too much that could go wrong. While John would gladly die to keep his best friend safe, there was every reason to suppose this Sherlock would follow him even if he told him to stay away, and this could bring him into all kinds of danger. Not to forget that he still didn't know if he wasn't causing enough ripples in the web of time already to have it eventually collapse.

He was never reading another Science fiction novel or watching a tv show again, that was for sure.

Once he returned. If he returned.

John shook the thought away and added, "If anything, we want to prove that he's responsible for Victor's murder – in whatever capacity – and I doubt that an interview would help us in any way. He is not going to confess."

He realized he was starting to sound like Sherlock, his Sherlock, and closed his mouth.

He had hoped to avoid lying to the police again – and especially going someplace where there was a chance he would run into even more people he knew – but he realized that he wouldn't be able to. They had to work on the case, and looking at the evidence was the next step.

"We need to see the evidence" he announced, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"While I do appreciate that we have to cover every possibility, I do not think that there was much evidence at the crime scene. Plus, the police are hardly going to appreciate our efforts."

Sherlock wasn't as thorough as he would eventually come to be, and John shouldn't have been surprised, but for some reason, he was. He didn't live for crime-solving yet.

And then the doctor realized that the young man was shivering again, and it wasn't just from the cold.

"For God's sake" he spat, unable to keep it in, "and if I promise we stop so you can buy drugs on the way?"

He hadn't meant to say it; he hadn't meant to almost shout at Sherlock. But seeing his best friend like this hurt, hurt more than John ever cared to admit.

He regretted it immediately when Sherlock's face became a blank mask.

"I am sure you can do it alone, since you are so experienced" he answered and would have left, but John quickly grabbed him.

"Sherlock, I am concerned about you, and I don't like seeing you like this. Please. I'm sorry".

The young man stared at him as if no one had ever told him they were concerned about him before. Most likely because no one had. He nodded stiffly and let out a deep breath.

"Don't worry about it. Let's go to St. Bart's, then". John wasn't surprised that he knew where the evidence would be.

"And we should definitely make a stop on the way" Sherlock added, and John could have sworn there was this twinge of shame in his voice again.

He clung to it as he stood in the entrance of a dark alleyway, making sure no one saw Sherlock buying cocaine.

**Author's note: At least they are working on the case... This story has its own way of going somewhere. Oh well.**

**I hope you liked it, please review.**


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's note: I'm glad that you are still enjoying this story. Getting reviews and followers is simply wonderful.**

**I don't own anything.**

The whole way – of course they walked, Sherlock apparently didn't like to take the tube or cabs – John wondered how they could possibly get into St. Bart's and look at the evidence without anyone noticing.

He couldn't just walk in and ask for the evidence like he was used to; and they would certainly raise enough attention by simply walking into a public building.

John didn't even know who was responsible for processing the evidence. He doubted it could be Molly Hooper, though – she couldn't be older than twenty-two, not old enough to be a pathologist yet. At least this meant he would have to deal with one less familiar face.

But still – they had to get in somehow. John alone could perhaps have managed to sneak in the lab without anyone noticing, he was a doctor after all and furthermore people tended to trust me; Sherlock, though, in his dirty clothes and obviously high wouldn't be able to convince anyone that he was allowed to be there and look at the evidence.

"We'll have to sneak in" the doctor admitted and rubbed a hand over his face. "Which means we have to get past doctors, nurses, police officers..."

"It is not as difficult as it might seem to you" Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. "I managed to sneak in Mycroft's mansion several times".

"To annoy him?"

"I needed a place to stay."

John didn't voice his conviction that Mycroft would have allowed Sherlock to stay if he had asked; the elder Holmes would surely have demanded he quit the drugs, but he would have had a home.

Not that Sherlock would have accepted.

"People don't pay attention" Sherlock continued as if he had never mentioned Mycroft. ""Mostly because they are idiots".

John smiled. "So you are suggesting we just walk in?"

"It's all a question of timing".

So it was that John found himself staring at the entrance of St. Bart's with Sherlock.

"We picked just the right time" Sherlock murmured, more to himself than to John.

"Some are still at lunch, some are just going to get it... If we... Now!"

If John hadn't been so used to obeying Sherlock's commands, he might have missed it; but, quickly following in the young man's footsteps, he carefully slipped in all the shadows that were available for hiding, evaded the security cameras and managed to get inside the door behind a family whose child wouldn't stop crying.

Sherlock grabbed his arm and quickly dragged him to a door on the right side of the reception.

"The family was the perfect cover-up. No one could pay attention to anything but the wailing toddler."

"Sherlock..." John whispered, more out of habit than anything else. Naturally, he didn't know what John wanted.

"What?"

"Just – Nothing". John sighed. Now wasn't the time.

"We need to get to the lab" he instead whispered eagerly.

"Where is it?" Sherlock inquired and John was slightly taken aback. He should have known; he could almost hear his Sherlock complaining that he "never thought things through".

He quickly told him, and Sherlock led the way because they occasionally had to hide from doctors or nurses.

Somehow, with a few close calls, they finally found their way to the lab he and Sherlock had met.

Would meet.

Hopefully.

John didn't know why, but here, where everything had begun, the gravity of his situation finally hit him. Before, he had been looking after Sherlock, worried about Moriarty, wondered about paradoxes, and tried to ignore the fact that he had no idea how to get home.

But here, he could no longer lie to himself.

He might never find a way to return.

And if he didn't –

Would he be forced to live the next twenty years all over again, waiting for the day he had disappeared? What would Sherlock say if a sixty-five year old John appeared on his doorstep? He would be old; he probably wouldn't be able to help him on cases anymore; maybe his hands would shake when he tried to clean Sherlock's wounds; maybe...

"John?" he became aware of the hand on his shoulder and realized he had started to hyperventilate. He felt weak and tired, and his head spun. He forced himself to take slow breaths and calmed down.

There was genuine worry in Sherlock's eyes, and he smiled, trying to be reassuring, but if the young man's face was anything to go by he didn't quite succeed.

"It's fine" he said, barely managing to hide the slight tremor in his voice, "It's all fine".

Sherlock was obviously confused and didn't know what to do, and John shook his head, repeating, "It's all fine. Just – I guess I didn't drink enough at lunch".

Sherlock knew he was lying, but didn't pursue the subject.

Instead, he started looking over the tables.

"Perfect".

"What?" John asked. His head had finally stopped spinning, thank God, and he could walk over to Sherlock without falling down.

"Whoever processed the evidence, they left them here on the table – idiots" Sherlock mumbled. He was already starting to look through the bags – mostly blood from the crime scene and one or two hair samples, as far as John could tell – and the doctor realized that, even if it had been just an excuse at the time, he really needed something to drink. Preferably coffee.

He knew Sherlock wouldn't appreciate him simply stalking of – he might pretend not to care, but his reaction to John's almost collapse had made him realize that it was all a show, even if he considered him a big brother rather than a friend – so he asked, "Do you think I might get a cup of coffee?"

Sherlock understood immediately, of course.

"We have come so far – I don't think anyone would react if you went to the cafeteria. I am rather sure that relatives of patients eat or drink there all the time".

He was right, of course, and John could tell he wanted to process the evidence, and he was certainly skilled enough in lying to at least stall anyone until he came back, so he did what he was told and went to get coffee.

And once again, he found that he should have known better.

Not while he was getting the coffees – black and milk for him, black, two sugars for Sherlock, even though he hadn't said that he wanted any, John had still felt compelled to get him his usual order – most of the people in the cafeteria hadn't paid any attention to him, and he was starting to hope that he would be able to return to the lab without any unwelcome surprises when –

He had just finished his studies. Which meant that, of course he had to get all sorts of documents from his professors, the university... and from St. Bart's.

In the end, this meant that John Watson found himself face-to-face with his twenty-five years old self.

It was strangely like looking in a mirror at a carnival, the sort of mirror that projected a distorted image.

John and his younger self stared at one another, and he knew there was no possible way that young John Watson couldn't see the similarities between them; plus, much as he had tried to deny it, he had started to look more and more like his – their – father as the years went on.

Scared as he was, confused as he was, he couldn't help but admire his young, optimistic self.

How proud he had been of himself; how sure he had been of his goals in life. He had never dreamed that he would become the best friend of the World's only consulting detective; that he would solve crimes and shoot criminals who had just convinced said friend to take a pill; that he would offer up his life to keep him safe; that he would cry at his grave only to have him return eventually.

This John Watson didn't know any of this, and wouldn't know it for years. This John Watson was as clueless as the young Sherlock Holmes, and predictably enough, John's first coherent thought was to keep them away from each other at all costs. God knew what would happen if they met each other now – so different from the men they were supposed to be – they might not even become friends.

And that thought was unacceptable.

Much as he would have liked the opportunity to talk to himself (not to tell him not to go to war, he could never say anything that would endanger his first meeting with the consulting detective, but to advice him never to let Sherlock out of his sight), his first instinct was to flee.

So he did.

As he heard his younger self call after him and give chase, as he found a closet he could hide in, as he realized that somehow, it had worked, and John Watson the younger had run further down the corridor so he could slip out and return to Sherlock...

He knew that what he did had indeed an effect on the future.

Because he remembered.

He remembered seeing a middle-aged man who looked suspiciously like his father standing in a corridor at St. Bart's, only to take one look at him and turn around and run away; he remembered chasing after, calling out to him, only to lose him in the endless corridors of the hospital.

_I made it happen, _John told himself over and over, because somehow, now that he remembered, it seemed like he had always remembered, and that he was simply –

No. He had just run into himself; it was logical that he would remember.

Much as he wished it hadn't happened, at least it gave him an answer to one of the questions he had been trying to answer.

He was changing the future. He was sure of it. He hadn't remembered that he had met himself before... had he? No, he hadn't. He had to cling to the fact that he hadn't. If he didn't, he would go crazy. He had to concentrate on what was important; he had to concentrate on somehow solving the case, keeping Sherlock away from the drugs and getting home.

Worrying about what came first – the memory or the act – wouldn't help him.

Even though he could have sworn he had always remembered it, in the back of his mind, only waiting for it to make sense –

No. He had changed the past, he was changing the past, and now he had the proof.

Even though he really wished he's never run into himself.

Because if he had managed to change his own memories by simply running into his younger self – and he hadn't talked to him, hadn't allowed him to take a longer look at him, and still he remembered – he shuddered to think what he had done to his Sherlock.

Or Greg. Or Mycroft, even. God knew how the future looked like – the changed future – where they all had known who he'd been before –

A suspicion entered his mind and made John dizzy for a moment.

Had Sherlock always known? Had all of them always known and simply waited for John to show up?

No. Sherlock would never do that to him. He had to calm down.

He managed, but only barely, and didn't even realize that he'd made his way back to the lab until he stood in front of the door.

He couldn't let Sherlock see him like this – the doubts and insecurities written all over his face – so he took a deep breath, made sure he hadn't lost too much coffee during his escape and entered the room.

Only to find Sherlock staring at someone he only saw from behind, but still recognized immediately.

Greg turned around.

"Mr. Jones – or whatever your real name is?"

**Author's note: Time travel is complicated. And I love complicated. Bear with me.**

**I hopes you liked it, please review. **


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's note: I got reviews! Have I mentioned that I love reviews? Because I do. So don't stop. Please.**

**Also, this chapter will be shorter. I'm sorry, but alas, no time.**

**I don't own anything.**

As it turned out, nothing in this time could be easy. Of course Greg had to show up and find Sherlock in the lab. John shouldn't have let him alone. Or he should have come alone. Greg arresting Sherlock had once been the beginning of their friendship, it was true, but he doubted that it would turn out this way again. Not when they both weren't who they were supposed to be yet.

He realized Greg was waiting for an answer, but he didn't know which to give.

Greg shook his head. "I have no idea what possessed you to do this. Who are you, and why didn't you give me your real name?"

John knew what he was thinking. Of course Greg had to think that the doctor was a criminal or at least someone who had good reasons to hide his identity.

John could try to tell him the truth; but apart from the fact that the DS wouldn't believe him and have him put in a mental institution at best and a cell at worst, he didn't want to risk changing the future anymore than he might have already. The encounter with himself in the corridor came to mind.

"You are obviously not a social worker; no one named Peter Jones exists" Greg continued "and you gave me a wrong address. But you seem like a..." his eyes trailed over John and the doctor was painfully aware that he hadn't really slept or changed his clothes and that he must look dishevelled at best.

"You are not homeless, at least, and yet you drag a cocaine addict to a crime scene and then bring him here to look at the evidence."

John looked at Sherlock and couldn't tell what he was thinking. Was he blaming John for bringing him here? Was he angry at Greg?

"I know what I am doing" the young man said, still looking at John rather than the DS, and Greg shook his head, turning around to face Sherlock.

"You are high, and you expect me to believe you can do better with the evidence than our forensic techs?"

"Of course" Sherlock answered and finally looked at Greg.

The DS huffed, clearly getting impatient; John realized he was more impulsive and less predictable than his friend, and clearly (as Sherlock had explained at the crime scene) eager to prove himself. He definitely wasn't pleased that two strangers had first managed to get into his crime scene and had then proceeded to sneak into St. Bart's to take a look at the evidence.

But, even though this meant they could get arrested at any moment, he was distracted by Sherlock.

He straightened his spine and despite his clothes and the drugs coursing through his blood, he looked more like John's Sherlock than before, now that he was confidently standing up to a police officer.

John still wished the officer hadn't been Greg, though.

"I already found some blood that definitely doesn't belong to the victim" Sherlock boasted, and John couldn't fight the smile that spread over his face.

"How did – " Greg began, probably wondering how he could know so quickly when the DNA hadn't been run yet, but Sherlock interrupted him.

"Blood type. Obviously. The victim had blood type B negative. The killer has O positive."

Greg stared at him.

"Sherlock Holmes, you said?"

John breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

"Yes."

"So" Greg turned around. "Now that we know he knows what he's doing... Who are you?"

John knew he couldn't avoid answering the question forever. And he supposed that most of the damage he could inflict was already done. If Sherlock and Greg would remember – and it seemed, from his own experience that they would – their DI would realize who he'd met in the future. He would remember that he had met John twenty years previously.

Telling him his name couldn't do much harm.

"John" he said, "John Watson".

Greg frowned, obviously wondering if he was lying, and John looked right into his eyes. Their DI had always trusted his gut feeling when it came to witnesses or suspects, and he was sure that this young version did as well.

Eventually, the policeman nodded.

"See, that wasn't so difficult."

John bit back a laugh. If only he knew.

"And what exactly are you doing?"

"Working the case" Sherlock answered so matter-of-factly that John had to clench his fists and press his fingernails into his palms in order not to show his amusement.

Greg looked at Sherlock like he had never seen someone like him before.

"Working. You and" he turned to the doctor "John are trying to solve the case?"

Sherlock looked at John; it was obvious that he wanted him to continue and explain what they were doing, and the doctor was taken aback, not used to having his best friend letting him do the talking.

The situation was so unfamiliar that it was almost disconcerting. Then again, John had felt like that since he had woken up on the street.

On the one hand, he didn't want to tell Greg about Moriarty; the consulting criminal was dangerous, and he couldn't risk anyone happening to the DS, not when he was supposed such a big role in Sherlock's life. On the other hand...

Greg wouldn't stop until he found out the truth, and once he did, he would go after Moriarty whether or not Sherlock and John were with him.

It was better if the doctor could keep an eye on him. On them both.

So he told him.

He left out that he came from the future, of course. He might be able to persuade Greg that he knew who had killed Victor Trevor, but not that they were going to be friends twenty years from now.

In the end, Greg snorted.

"You expect me to believe that a criminal mastermind killed Victor Trevor because he bragged about working for him?"

"I know it's difficult to believe – "

"It's impossible to believe, that's what it is!" Greg huffed. "Someone organizing crimes? Do you really expect me to – "

"Please" John interrupted him, because he didn't know what else to say. "There has to be a reason, right? For us to go to the crime scene. For us to come here. I know how difficult this must be for you. I know you think I'm crazy. And yet – Please. Try to believe me. If only for a while. Until I can prove it."

For a moment he feared that Greg would simply shake his head and arrest them; Sherlock seemed to think the same, at least he was moving suspiciously closer to a chair. It gave John a jolt to realize that he was getting ready to attack the DS.

He couldn't let that happen. He couldn't allow Sherlock to attack someone who should be his friend.

To his relief the DS finally nodded.

"I don't know why" he said, shaking his head, "but alright. You don't do anything without me, though".

"As if we would need your help" Sherlock said dismissively.

Greg shot him an angry glare. "If there's one thing you don't need, it's me arresting you. So you better play by my rules, mate".

"I am not your mate" Sherlock replied, sweeping past Greg and sitting down in a chair next to John.

The two glared at each other and the doctor's heart sank. This wasn't supposed to happen.

Nothing of this was supposed to happen, naturally; but this wasn't what John meant.

When Greg and Sherlock had met – should have met – Greg had already been a DI, confident, experienced, patient. He had looked at Sherlock and seen a brilliant young man; true, he'd been a drug addict, but that hadn't stopped the DI from seeing that he was special. And he hadn't hesitated for a moment when he'd realized what Sherlock could do.

Now...

In this time, Greg was still a little too ambitious to welcome Sherlock with open arms. He was still fair, still a good police officer; but he was only in his thirties and hadn't yet been made a DI.

And Sherlock... He was even more unpredictable than he'd always been, vulnerable, unsure.

They didn't fit together the way they should. They couldn't. They had been different men when they met.

John couldn't help it, though. He would just have to solve the case with them and hope that they somehow found the friendship they were supposed to share on the way.

**Author's note: I only just realized that Greg almost always finds his way into my fanfics by casually strolling in or showing up at the right moment. Guess that's what makes him such a good police officer.**

**Tell me what you think about my young Lestrade, please. I tried to keep him in character yet different. I know I don't make sense.**


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's note: Thanks to all the people who decided to follow this story, even though it's probably the most unpredictable fanfic I have written so far.**

**I don't own anything, please review. **

„Remind me again why I had to bring you back here?" Greg asked, and John barely held back a sigh.

The Ds had not been enthusiastic about bringing them back to the crime scene, insisting that he "had already searched it carefully". The disbelieving snort from Sherlock hadn't helped.

In a way, Greg reminded John strangely of Dimmock when the young DI had first met Sherlock. Not ready to let an amateur get the credit for solving a crime.

Then again, he had taken them to the crime scene, so he must have been somewhat impressed by Sherlock's deductions. Even if they didn't get along.

Sherlock hadn't spoken since they had left St. Bart's and had pointedly always walked next to John; when Greg had had questions, he had only asked the doctor, without so much as looking at the young man.

It hurt to see them like this, but there was nothing John could do.

At least they were at the crime scene now, and he explained to the DS, "Sherlock doesn't – Sherlock sees crime scenes differently than the police".

"I can imagine that" the DS replied.

Sherlock, thankfully, didn't say anything and instead concentrated on the room. Seeing him get on his knees, sprinting across the room, poke at the walls was somewhat comforting, John had to admit.

Especially since his leg was beginning to trouble him.

He would have gladly attributed that to all the walking he had done, and perhaps to the attack that had brought him here; but he was used to running a lot, usually to catch up to Sherlock, and his leg hadn't hurt since the consulting detective had come back.

Did it hurt because it troubled him to see his best friend like this? It was a possibility, but somehow John couldn't quite believe it. Normally his leg hurt because he didn't have enough adrenaline in his bloodstream, and he'd been constantly on edge since he'd come here... And anyway, he still knew Sherlock in the future, knew that he was alright – he had left him happily busy in the kitchen – so why would –

He swallowed, a suspicion entering his mind.

Slowly, so that Sherlock and Greg (who followed the younger man's every move, a suspicious look in his eyes) wouldn't notice he took his left hand out of his pocket.

He held it in front of his eyes and held his breath.

His tremor was back.

He felt dizzy and had to lean against the wall. Because if his tremor was back and his leg was acting up...

He had already changed the future. It probably meant he wasn't living with Sherlock. Maybe he hadn't met him after he was invalided home; maybe Sherlock hadn't returned from the dead.

Maybe... his eyes trailed over to the young man who was frowning at the blood spatter. Maybe Sherlock had tired of him, since he'd already known him for twenty years, and had thrown him out.

Maybe...

He clenched his left hand and pressed it into his right palm. Now wasn't the time to deal with any of this. And he had to admit that his tremor and leg weren't as bad yet as they had been when he had returned to London. There was still hope.

Maybe the future hadn't changed that much after all.

"You alright?"

John looked up to find Greg staring at him.

He gave him a weak smile.

"I'm fine".

"Forgive me if I don't believe you" the Ds said, frowning. "There's clearly something –"

"Yes, there is" John answered tiredly. He didn't like lying, especially to his friends.

Greg was obviously waiting for him to continue, and for one crazy moment, he contemplated telling him the truth. He was the man who was going to become his friend, after all; perhaps he would –

No. He was panicking because of his leg. Greg would never believe him. And the future had already been changed. There was no point in risking another change.

"I was a soldier, and my old war wound is acting up".

It was true enough.

Greg studied him before looking at Sherlock. The young man was still looking for clues and apparently hadn't heard a word of their conversation; he hadn't realized John was in pain.

And the doctor had to admit that it hurt. Sherlock always knew when he was in pain, and always acknowledged the fact. Now, though, he didn't care. Or didn't know how to care.

John simply shouldn't be in this time and place.

Greg decided that he'd had enough of being ignored.

"Not to – " He cleared his throat. "Alright, I'm crazy enough just for letting you be here. I want to know why you take care of him".

"I beg your pardon?" John was honestly taken aback; despite everything, Greg asking him why he would look after Sherlock was simply too weird.

"I mean , you – yes, you are nuts, but you still seem like a pretty straight-forward bloke, and he is... well..." Greg turned to look at Sherlock again, who was mumbling to himself while investigating a corner of the room.

"He is my friend" John simply said because he didn't know how to explain it differently. Sherlock would always be his friend, no matter in what time period.

As it turned out, Greg had always been a man who spoke his mind.

"But why?"

John blinked; not because he didn't want to answer, but because he didn't know how to answer. He had never asked himself why he and Sherlock were friends. They were, and it was enough.

Greg shook his head.

"Forget it, I had no right to ask."

He looked hurt, and John was quick to reassure him. He had already felt that the future had changed; he couldn't afford to make their DI angry with him.

"No, it's just – " and then the doctor remembered what Henry Knight had said to Sherlock and what the consulting detective had told him, one evening shortly after he had come back, "Mates are mates".

The DS chuckled.

"I suppose you are right".

John bit his lip. Perhaps Greg could become Sherlock's friend after all; he didn't seem as hostile as he had before. And most of the people they called their friends had needed some time to get used to the consulting detective.

Then, suddenly, Sherlock called out, "John!"

Both the doctor and the DS rushed to his side, and John felt a stab when Sherlock proceeded to ignore Greg like he had done ever since they had left St. Bart's.

"Here" he said, showing John a crumpled piece of paper. "I found it under a floorboard. It can't have been there long". There were a few signs painted on it, but John couldn't make them out.

He squinted and, after he'd realized he wouldn't be able to read them, asked, "what does it mean?"

"Wait –" Greg exclaimed, "Isn't that an Omega?"

John sighed and admitted to himself that his eyes weren't as good as they had once been; the letters – or whatever they were – were rather small, in his defence. And, of course, Greg was younger than him. For now. The Di he knew had steadfastly denied that he needed glasses even though he did; this DS genuinely had no need for them.

"Well done, Sergeant". Sherlock's voice was heavy with sarcasm, but at least he wasn't trying to insult the DS – John could tell. Apparently, for whatever reason, Greg could tell too, because he didn't answer, only looked at the doctor.

John realized that Greg wanted him to ask and inquired, "Is it Ancient Greek? What does it mean?"

Sherlock spoke several languages fluently and could understand even more; john had always assumed that he had learned them in his youth and he wasn't disappointed.

"Come play with me" Sherlock translated.

And just like that John wished he had never asked.

Because Sherlock wouldn't stop now until he had found the one who had written that message, the one who wanted to play the game. Because John Watson knew Sherlock Holmes, and in whatever time period, he would always choose the challenge.

John had led him right into Moriarty's path.

Greg realized that the doctor knew what was going on; at least he looked at him in a way that made John believe he had realized; but he couldn't say for sure. He couldn't be sure about anything in this time, in this World he had turned upside down, in this time he had no business to be; he might have destroyed everything that should have been.

If his leg and his hand were anything to go on, he had destroyed everything that was of any importance.

But he found that he didn't care anymore. Not when Sherlock was once again caught in Moriarty's game. All that mattered was to protect him against it, somehow. Because if his Sherlock had only been able to win by sacrificing three years of his life –

This Sherlock, he was so young, so – so defenceless, in a way. And he didn't have Mrs. Hudson. Or Greg. Or Mycroft. He didn't even have John, at least not how he should have him.

Especially with his leg hurting and his hand shaking.

At least he shot with his right.

John realized Sherlock and Greg were waiting for him to say something, so he stated, "It's him. It's Moriarty."

"How do you know?" Greg asked.

"Because" John answered, looking him in the eyes, confident that the DS would realize he was telling the truth, "I've met the killer before. And this is exactly his style."

"You met him before?"

John hadn't predicted that Greg would be suspicious, but he should have. Of course the DS would wonder when and how he'd met the killer.

"Yes. I and my – my partner met him a few times, actually. We investigate crimes" he continued.

Greg's eyes automatically went to Sherlock, and John quickly added, "I don't usually work with him".

He was glad that Greg didn't say what he wanted to say, which probably consisted of a "Thank God".

And you and your... partner are what? Amateur detectives?"

John couldn't help it; he flinched. Because these words, coming out of Greg's mouth, definitely hurt. And he didn't even have the comfort that Sherlock would never hear them, because Sherlock had already heard them.

There was another twinge of pain in his leg.

"When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they call John's friend" Sherlock said decisively. Of course he had to choose this moment to prove that he remembered what John had told him after he'd woken up.

John could almost feel the hostility between the two men. True, at least the DS wasn't like so many other policemen they had met. It wasn't that Greg considered Sherlock a freak; it wasn't that he had anything against the young man per se; but he didn't trust him.

John had to admit that, looking at Sherlock, there weren't many reasons to trust him. If you didn't know him. And Greg didn't.

And that he'd always been proud of his job and wasn't ready yet to admit there could be someone better at it than the actual police wasn't helping.

"So you are better than us, is that it?"

"Not better. Just different" John tried, and it seemed to appease Greg somewhat.

John quickly caught Sherlock's eyes and shook his head, indicating that he shouldn't say what he obviously wanted to say, and Sherlock –

Obeyed.

It didn't get any less surprising.

"Okay. Good. Whatever" Greg had decided that he didn't want to discuss the subject further, and John was grateful.

"So you met this guy before. You know him. You know where he is" he stated. John hadn't told him that he knew where Moriarty's office was located, but Greg was still a good policeman.

The doctor nodded.

"Fine. We'll talk to him".

Sherlock looked at John, and he nodded again. Because he had come to realize that they would indeed have to talk to Moriarty, if only to let him know that the game was on.

**Author's note: Am I making sense? Then again, I spend most of my life not making sense.**

**I'm trying to show that Greg isn't judging like Donavan for example, but that they simply met at the wrong time.**

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's note: I am honoured that more people have decided to follow this fic. I really am. I would wish for a few more reviews, though. How about we try to get fifty reviews? It would make me really happy.**

**If it doesn't happen, don't worry, however. I'll still update my story.**

**Also, I love how the people who do review (and thank you, thank you, thank you for that) seem to be scared because Sherlock and John could lose one another. This is why I love the fandom. **

**I don't own anything. **

At least they could take Greg's car instead of walking this time; John's leg was acting up once again, and he desperately tried to convince himself that the pain wasn't getting stronger.

It wasn't working. Greg sensed his discomfort; he kept shooting him glances through the rear view mirror. Sherlock, who was sitting beside John at the backseat, either didn't notice he was in pain or he didn't care.

John couldn't say which option upset him more.

Until he saw Sherlock bit his lip while he was staring out of the window and realized that the young man had noticed, did care and didn't know how to react.

He wasn't surprised; it had taken his best friend years to learn how to act human.

He wished this meant he didn't have to worry about this young Sherlock; but he was starting to shiver again, and it was clear that he would soon need another fix.

John hated himself for it, but he already knew he would help him to buy cocaine again. He needed him, needed his brain, to fight and win against Moriarty. He couldn't imagine going after the consulting criminal with anyone else, drugs and all.

Speaking of Moriarty...

He didn't know what to expect. And that scared John more than he cared to admit.

He knew Moriarty – as well as one could know a man who had tried to kill one on several occasions and almost succeeded. He knew him to be unpredictable, extremely intelligent, vain, and obsessed with Sherlock.

There was every reason to think that he was just as intelligent, unpredictable and vain as he would be in several years' time.

But he might get obsessed with Sherlock too early. And Sherlock wasn't strong enough to play games with him yet.

John looked at the young man who was shivering next to him once more and decided that, if the opportunity presented itself, he would kill Moriarty.

He had already changed the past – his leg told him so; perhaps he had changed it irrevocably. Perhaps the life he knew was lost.

But he could still prevent Sherlock and Moriarty to meet and play games again. He could still prevent the consulting criminal becoming the most dangerous man in London.

There was still time to set at least a few things right, even if John Watson might have lost everything.

"You two let me talk, alright?"

The sound of Greg's voice made John jump, and he realized once again that living with Sherlock had taught him how to get lost in his head quite well.

No.

Should have taught him.

The life he remembered was no longer his life.

Why didn't he remember his new life? Why didn't he know what was going on? John decided that it had probably to do with the fact that he wasn't in his right timeline and that he'd been able to remember the encounter with himself because it had happened before he had changed things, before he had ever met Sherlock Holmes. Maybe he would return to his own time only to find that he couldn't remember where he was supposed to live at all.

This whole thing was getting more confusing by the minute. Maybe he should have paid more attention to the details of time travel when reading and watching science fiction.

Or maybe he shouldn't have paid any attention at all. He would have worried less.

"Hello? Did you hear what I just said?" John shook his head and forced himself to answer Greg.

"Yes, of course. You're the DS".

His voice sounded strangely flat, even to his own ears, and he felt more than saw Sherlock's suspicious glance. Greg seemed satisfied with his answer, though, and didn't ask.

Neither did Sherlock, for that matter. But John had grown used to the young man ignoring what he couldn't understand, so he said nothing.

He should have protested, should have explained why Greg shouldn't talk to Moriarty.

John didn't want another friend caught in the consulting criminal's game years before he should ever have heard of him.

John didn't want Greg to be in danger too.

John didn't want any of his friends ever to have heard the name of Jim Moriarty. If only it was that simple.

Perhaps, if he'd told Greg the truth, he could still have prevented the DS talking to Moriarty,

But John was just so tired.

So tired of putting up with everything. So tired of running after a young drug addict and solving crimes; so tired of –

John suddenly realized what was happening and shoved the thoughts away.

He was sinking into his Post-Afghanistan depression again. Which could only mean that his suspicion had been right after all. He wasn't living with Sherlock anymore. He would return to an empty life. If he returned at all.

No. He had to concentrate on the here and now. Sherlock was by his side, even if he wasn't his best friend. Moriarty was alive and he had to stop him. He had to cling to the man he'd become after he had met the consulting detective. He might still be able to stop all of this, to stop him returning to an empty life. But only if he remembered who he was.

He wasn't a depressive ex-army doctor who had returned from the war to find nothing waiting for him. He was Sherlock Holmes' best friend; he had shot a man for him within twenty-four hours of their first meeting; he had fought with him and kept him alive for one and a half years; he had put up with danger nights and Sherlock not allowing himself to sleep and eat; he had watched him commit suicide; he had stood at his grave and prayed and wished and cried for him to return; he had punched him in the face when he had, only to run after him and beg him to stay.

It wasn't the life he had once imagined for himself, but it was the life that had found him and that he would always choose.

He clung to it, now, until his tiredness subsided and he realized he had won the battle for now.

For now he was still John Watson, the flatmate of Sherlock Holmes, the World's only consulting detective.

All he wanted to be.

"We're here".

In his struggle, he had once more paid no heed to where they were going, or rather, when they would arrive, and Greg's words took him by surprise.

Only then did he realize that he was not ready to meet Moriarty. Not after everything he had done to Sherlock.

Instinctively, he reached for his gun; it wasn't there.

He couldn't say if that was a good thing or a bad thing. And that scared him.

"Alright" he said, trying to sound more confident than he felt, and got out of the car, followed by Sherlock, who was as happy as he could be, solving the crime, putting together the puzzle, finally finding a worthy enemy.

John wanted to shake him, more so than he'd done when he had shown up at his door step after three years and looked at him like he'd simply gone out to get some milk.

He reminded himself that Sherlock's enthusiasm for his work was one of the reasons he'd been drawn to him years ago and took a deep breath. This was Moriarty; he couldn't show any weakness in front of the consulting criminal.

"Again" Greg said as he got out of the car, "I – "

"We heard you the first time, Sergeant" Sherlock interrupted him and John, who was busy balancing (he didn't want to limp into Moriarty's presence) wondered if he'd ever learn to respect the police man.

_Greg_. Not police man. He had to get a grip on himself.

"So, where is the office?"

John didn't have to think long. He pointed to an elegant building with a glass front.

"Trust me, it's his style".

Classy, designed to inspire a certain respect in clients. Exactly what Moriarty would want.

Greg nodded and led the way.

Sherlock, miraculously, decided to let the DS enter Moriarty's office first.

John took a deep breath and followed them.

He had changed so much already. Maybe he could finally change something for the better.

**Author's note: Sorry for the short chapter. Yet again. **

**This was actually supposed to be all about Moriarty, and then it turned quite angsty. It's how it works.**

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


	19. Chapter 19

**Author's note: There will be angst in this chapter. I actually didn't think it would get so angsty – my brain works in mysterious ways.**

**There will be Moriarty too, though, if that is any consolation. **

**I hope you liked it, please review. **

John couldn't really what he had expected. Maybe Moran to welcome them, although the sniper had probably not met the consulting criminal yet; maybe Moriarty himself, already aware who they were and what they were doing here.

Instead they were greeted by a blonde receptionist who politely asked them if they had an appointment with "Mr. Richard".

A shiver ran down John's spine on hearing Moriarty's assumed name, but before he could react, Greg had shown her his badge and explained that they had to ask her boss a few questions.

John would have preferred another approach – preferably one where Moriarty didn't know, at least for as long as it took him to deduce it, that Greg was a police officer, but it couldn't be helped now.

The office didn't look like he would have though Moriarty's office would; it was too... normal.

Even if the consulting criminal hadn't changed much; he had apparently always worn Westwood suits.

He stood up when they entered.

"Hello. Richard Pinkerton. How can I be of service?"

The tone of his voice was enough to make John nauseous. He had been glad when he'd heard that Moriarty was dead; glad that he was lying somewhere in an unmarked grave, not being mourned by anybody; he had been glad that he was gone and would never return.

He had been a little disappointed that he hadn't been the one to shoot him, though.

Maybe now was his chance.

Only that he didn't have a gun. And that he couldn't have shot Moriarty even if he had, because killing him in front of a policeman would have been a bit not good. He had to get home somehow; he couldn't find a way to return if he was locked up.

But still, seeing this man standing in front of him, smiling, the certain glint of madness in his eye, knowing what he would do in years to come, what he already had done...

It was almost too much to bear.

Sherlock sensed his discomfort and shot him a worried glance. This didn't make John feel better; if Sherlock could tell, then so could Moriarty.

"We have a few questions about the murder of Victor Trevor?"

"And is it customary for the police to bring middle-aged doctors with a psychosomatic limb and drug addicts to interviews?" Moriarty asked, still smiling, still polite, but John could see that Greg was starting to finally believe him.

The consulting criminal hadn't had the right reaction for an innocent man. He hadn't asked who Victor Trevor was, he hadn't asked why they wanted to talk to him.

John wanted to believe it had been a mistake, but he knew Moriarty to well. He simply wanted to play with them.

"They are helping me with the investigation".

Moriarty raised an eyebrow and – John knew that look.

Moriarty was beginning to get interested.

It was exactly what the doctor had wanted to prevent. An interested Moriarty meant games; an interested Moriarty meant Sherlock throwing himself into danger without thinking of the consequences.

John wanted to scream against the unfairness of it all, he wanted to drag Sherlock out of the room, he wanted to strangle Moriarty, consequences be damned.

But he couldn't do any of those things.

Why had he been sent back if he was so powerless? Here he was, and he had managed to destroy his life (and possibly those of his friends too, he couldn't forget that – no no no, he shouldn't think like that, Sherlock was fine in the future, Sherlock had to be fine in the future) in the space of a day.

Why John? Why couldn't someone have been sent back who was clever, knew what to do, knew not to destroy –

He realized his thoughts were getting more depressed by the minute and bit his lip hard enough to draw blood.

_Remember yourself. Remember Sherlock. This can't happen if you don't allow it to happen._

"Helping? Well, I am glad the police get the help they need. Plus I guess working alone gets quite boring after a while, doesn't it?"

Moriarty using that word – boring – was enough to shake John out of his trance.

He didn't care what happened to him. Not if he had the chance to end everything here.

Although maybe not right now.

He would like to – he would like to draw Moriarty's death out a little.

He was ashamed of himself. But it was the truth.

"Mr. Pinkerton" Greg asked, obviously tired of the other man's banter, "would you please tell us where you were last night?"

"At home. Quite alone, I am afraid".

Moriarty was lying, and they could all see it. Maybe because he was confident that they didn't have any proof, or –

Suddenly, John wasn't so certain that the consulting criminal was toying with them.

He might have been; there was no question of that.

But –

From the moment they had entered the room, there had been something off about him, something decidedly not human. His tone was a little too friendly, his smile a little too bright. He seemed hollow. John hadn't thought much about noticing it; he knew him after all; Sherlock would have noticed because the doctor had told him all about the consulting criminal; yet Greg had noticed it too, even though up to this point he hadn't really believed John's story.

Moriarty wasn't as much in control of himself as he would eventually be.

This wasn't the man who had made them believe that he was a gay IT specialist; this was a young psychopath who hadn't perfected his acting skills yet.

He was doing quite well; he was doing everything he was supposed to do; but there was something missing, something that had even fooled Sherlock into thinking he was human.

While this made things somewhat easier, the situation had just grown worse as well.

Because if John could imagine someone more dangerous than Moriarty –

It was a Moriarty who wasn't fully in control of himself.

The messy murder of Victor Trevor hadn't made much sense, John decided now that he thought about it. If Moriarty had already been the man who had killed himself on the roof of St. Bart's, the murder would have been clean, precise; there would have been no invitation to play for some random police man who might find the paper and there certainly would have been no evidence.

Perhaps Moriarty hadn't even realized he had cut himself in his frenzy. Perhaps he wasn't aware that he had left a clue behind.

Either way, he was slaughtering his informants in a brutal manner. And he was building up his emporium.

John had had enough. Moriarty was already curious why Greg should bring Sherlock and John with him; only mildly curious, it was true, but still – it would only take a wrong word to make him obsessed with Sherlock all over again.

It was time for John to take the initiative.

"Mr. Pinkerton, we have reason to believe that you weren't at home. In fact, everything points to you killing Victor Trevor".

"Oh?" Moriarty's eyes glistened with interest, and John wondered if Sherlock had felt trapped too when he had seen this look on the consulting criminal's face. Maybe not. Sherlock had been glad to have an interesting challenge for a change.

Until people got hurt.

At least Moriarty was focusing on him.

Sherlock was content just to watch them, and it was disconcerting. John suspected he was suffering withdrawal symptoms yet again. They would eventually have to leave Greg and buy more drugs. If the DS didn't decide that he wanted to arrest them, which likely, considering the angry glare he was shooting John.

John knew that what he was about to do was incredibly stupid. Even if he managed to fool Moriarty into thinking he was a worthy advisory, he wouldn't be able to win against him. Alone, that was.

But – and he looked at Sherlock, who gave him a slight nod, to show that he understood what was going on, and he realized that the young man was not ignoring what was going on before him – he wouldn't be alone.

John took a deep breath and said the one thing that would ensure that Moriarty didn't forget about him.

"We know he was an informant of yours, Mr. Moriarty."

His eyes flashed and an insane grin lit up his face.

"I have to admit – I'm impressed. I didn't think anything interesting was going to happen today. You can't imagine how utterly dull life can be" he said as he walked around the table and came to stand in front of John.

"They all come and ask me to solve their problems" he continued "and it's always the same: "Please help me get rid of my cheating husband, please help me deliver the drugs, please, please, please" – like I'm their fairy Godmother. I am anything but, though; I just lacked the hero for my fairytale."

He chuckled.

"Guess I have found him".

John swallowed.

"I arrest you for – "

Moriarty interrupted Greg's well-meant but ill-fated attempt to arrest him with a shake of his head.

"Oh no you don't. What would be the fun about sitting in a cell when there's someone out here I can play with? Unless you have backup – and I know you don't – I suggest you leave. There are three rifles pointed at you. So, Goodbye – for now. I'll be in touch..."

He trailed off and John, through pressed teeth, supplied him with, "John Watson".

"Alright, Johnny. Like I said, I'll be in touch".

Moriarty sat down at his desk again.

Greg was about to protest, but John put a hand on his arm and shook his head.

"Don't. He's telling the truth. We should leave".

The DS, while angry and confused, complied.

They were almost at the door when Moriarty called out, "By the way, what is the name of your silent friend? Or did he do too much cocaine and forgot?"

Before John could prevent it, Sherlock had strolled back into the room.

He came to stand right in front of Moriarty and announced "My name is Sherlock Holmes. And I don't need to talk – I can tell you had an abusive father and killed your first victim when you were fourteen years old without wasting time by pointlessly conversing with you."

He turned around and left the room with John and Greg, but not before the doctor had seen the look on Moriarty's face and realized that his attempt to have Moriarty focused on him instead of Sherlock had been in vain.

"Sherlock..." he started as soon as they stood in the street.

The young man shook his head.

"I didn't like it".

"What?"

"The way he talked".

There were many ways to interpret this, but John chose not to ask.

Greg cursed.

"So what now?"

"We get a DNA out of the blood sample I found" Sherlock told him, thankfully trying to be polite. "Once we have that, we can get a sample from him and –"

"How? No judge is going to sign a warrant".

"He won't let himself get arrested anyway" John said, because it was true. Greg shouldn't even have been with them; he could do nothing.

"In this case, let me repeat my question: So what now?"

"We wait" John replied quietly, taking one last look at the building.

"He will be in touch."

"And if he simply wants – "

"He doesn't want to kill us. Not yet". John smiled grimly because, for once, this was one thing in this time he was absolutely sure of.

"He wants to play".

**Author's note: I have even more followers – thank you. **

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


	20. Chapter 20

**Author's note: More followers! Wuhu!**

**Here, have more angst. **

**I don't own anything. **

Naturally Greg wasn't pleased with their plan to do nothing. Their DI would have expected any suggestion of Sherlock's, and perhaps of John's too, but the young DS tried to argue.

"I don't see why we can't get a – "

"Warrant?" Sherlock asked. "Didn't you say yourself that no judge would sign one, Sergeant?"

Sherlock was impatient too, impatient to get drugs, impatient to get rid of Greg, and John couldn't say which was worse.

Finally, after he had tried to explain it to him several times, Greg huffed.

"Okay. So you are the bait".

"More or less".

"Fine. Call me if anyone tries to kill you".

After having given John his office number as well as his home number, he left. John watched him go with alarmingly little regret. While a good and able policeman, he wasn't the DI they needed.

He sighed. Maybe his consulting detective would have been able to draw Moriarty out, but all John could do was wait. He was not about to let this young, vulnerable Sherlock try to go up against the consulting criminal.

His leg was starting to shake underneath him – worse than it had after Sherlock had disappeared – and he was exhausted.

"Sherlock" he asked, "is there any place we could crash for a few hours?"

He was thankful when the young man didn't say anything, but simply looked him up and down and nodded. It was clear that he didn't know what to do or say. John supposed he had never really been in the position of taking care of someone before – and if he looked as bad as he felt, he must look awful.

That wasn't the worst, though.

The worst was that he had trouble remembering why he should even care about all of this – the young drug addict, the stubborn DS, the happy murderer – in the first place.

He forced himself to focus on Sherlock and reminded himself that this was his best friend he was talking to.

He gave him a weak smile and asked, because there was only really one option (alright, maybe two, but he simply couldn't imagine Sherlock going to his elder brother for help), "Shinwell?"

Sherlock nodded again, then turned around and left without a word, leaving John to follow as best as he could.

He didn't walk as quickly as he had before, though, and the doctor reminded himself again that this young man cared about him because he cared about him too; because he was going to be his best friend. There had to be some way of reversing the effects of his time travel.

Sherlock knew the town just as well as his future counterpart, and they arrived back at the house Shinwell had treated John in much sooner than the doctor would have thought. He was glad they had, though; he wasn't sure how much longer he would have been able to walk.

Not only were his symptoms growing worse and he was getting more and more depressed by the minute, but it seemed to happen much more quickly than at first now, too; all in all, it was logical. Once the change had started – once he had changed the future – it was bound to happen. He was only glad that it had happened slow enough for him to realize what was going on and try and fight it.

Even if he wasn't very successful.

At least he still had his memories, his real memories, and wasn't starting to remember a life without the consulting detective. He couldn't imagine why, he was too tired to wonder why, but he assumed it had something to do with his not yet having returned to his real time. Which, of course, meant that he would somehow have to clear this mess up before he returned.

First of all, though, he desperately needed to sit down. And something to eat.

Shinwell apparently had finished his shift at the pub; when Sherlock knocked on a door at the ground floor of the abandoned house and called out his name, he told them that "He needed another minute", probably meaning he had a patient.

Soon enough John's suspicion was proven right when the door opened and a young man with a bandage around his right biceps left the house without looking at them.

"Sorry. Knife fight. They never learn..." Shinwell had stepped out of the room while speaking, whipping his hands; he trailed off when he realized the state John was in.

"John? What – " a suspicion entered his mind and he turned to Sherlock, who raised an eyebrow.

"I do not drug people".

John couldn't help himself. He snorted.

Shinwell shot him a concerned look and guided him in the room; Sherlock cleared his throat and announced that he had to "get supplies" before quickly leaving. John was in no state to protest anyway.

Shinwell helped him to a chair and checked his temperature.

"What happened?"

John waved a hand in the air.

"Nothing. My old war wound's acting up".

Shinwell tilted his head to the side and frowned.

"There's something different about you. You didn't even say anything when Sherlock went off to get drugs".

"What would have been the point?" The words escaped John before he registered what he was about to say; in the next moment he realized and cringed.

"John..."

"Yes, Shinwell" he replied, deciding that he might as well tell him a part of the truth. "Something is happening to me, and I don't know how to stop it. It's not just – physical either".

Shinwell looked him in the eyes and then, to John's surprise, nodded.

"Concentrate on the things that matter" he advised him softly. "You have to have something to hold on to".

"How – "

Shinwell smiled. "I live on the streets; and you want to know one of the reasons? So many people, no matter that they have families or houses or friends eventually give up caring. Lose what makes them human. Too many. Here on the streets, though – all we have is our life. Our humanity. So we try and cling to something. Everybody needs something in his life that means something to him". He indicated the room with a gesture of his hand. "Why do you think I treat homeless people for free, even if I'm not a real doctor?"

John smiled, because he understood only too well.

And he understood something else too. He should have seen it sooner, but he had been distracted by everything else going on around him.

"Where?"

"Falkland".

"It puts things into perspective" was all John said, because it did. He knew.

Shinwell smiled and changed the subject.

"Sherlock's looking better than he has for a long time. What did you do?"

"I made him eat lunch" John answered, feeling the usual pride at having taken care of Sherlock properly. "And he hasn't used that much cocaine."

Shinwell stared at him.

"Eat? You got him to eat? I've been trying to do that for months – how?"

"I told him he should" John answered, shrugging.

"You, John Watson" Shinwell stated, "are an extraordinary man".

John chuckled.

"I wouldn't say that. He's still..." his face darkened, but he still felt a strange twinge of relief because he was worried about Sherlock again. Somehow, he had managed to hold off the change for now.

"John, he's lucid. He isn't – there were times – " Shinwell looked down at the floor, apparently unsure if he should finish the sentence when John almost inaudibly asked, "he overdosed?"

"It was – I wasn't sure he would make it" the other man admitted. "But he was adamant that I don't call an ambulance. I didn't want him to get even more worked up than he already was, so..." he gave John a weak smile.

"Thank you" was all the doctor could answer. Someone had looked after Sherlock. Someone had made it possible for him and John to meet, in whatever scenario – if Shinwell hadn't treated him, he would perhaps have lain in the street, his heart slowing and finally stopping, growing cold, until someone had found –

He swallowed.

Shinwell read the emotions on his face and squeezed his arm.

"You care about him" he said. "Maybe that's what's different about him".

"You care about him too" John replied, remembering their earlier conversation in the pub.

The other man blinked, then laughed.

"Yes. But we – haven't clicked like you two".

It was John's turn to laugh, but he couldn't prevent it from sounding bitter. He and Sherlock hadn't "clicked", not the way they should have; they weren't what they were supposed to be. Not that he could tell Shinwell.

Thankfully, the other man said nothing, and they settled down to wait for Sherlock.

He showed up half an hour later, high but able to walk and speak without difficult, and Shinwell once more looked surprised and pleased but didn't comment on it.

Instead, he inquired, "Would you like to eat something? I'm sure I'll find something..."

Realizing how John looked at him – Shinwell was nice, and he liked him quite well, but he couldn't imagine something like a fridge in this house – he added, "Something edible".

John happily accepted his offer, and Sherlock didn't protest, which was probably the best reaction the doctor could hope for.

The dinner proved to be good, however, and John once more managed to coax Sherlock into eating; and while he was watching the young man slowly clean his plate, he realized how much he missed his best friend refusing to eat, how much he missed their arguments about proper nourishment and enough rest and transport, and he suddenly felt very alone between the ex-soldier who was looking after homeless people and the young drug addict who had given up on himself.

He clung to the feeling, if only because it meant his life with Sherlock had truly existed; if only it meant his life after the war hadn't been as empty as his limp and his shaking hand told him.

Thankfully, his symptoms subsided over the course of the evening, and he got better at controlling his thoughts.

He could remember everything that had to do with Sherlock, how they'd met, how he'd shot a man for him after he'd known him for only twenty-four hours; the cases they had solved (well, Sherlock had solved them, but John had kept him alive, so he guessed he deserved some praise too); the danger nights; the three years without him; his return; how he'd forgiven him (after he had punched him, of course) and welcomed him back. That he had never been happier than when Sherlock had declared his name was cleared and they could go back to fighting crime.

Shinwell was right; he had to hold onto something.

He had decided to concentrate on his best friend. It was working, although he couldn't say for how long it would work.

Sherlock was eating, however, and Shinwell was apparently convinced he was some sort of miracle worker, so it was alright. For now.

No matter how much he tried to push the worries away, they always came back. He had to find a way to get home; more than that, he had to find a way to prevent any of this from happening –

If he found a time machine (ridiculous as it sounded) he would have to prevent himself from ever being sent in the past.

Great. He wasn't even making sense to himself, now.

It was the truth. He had to prevent any of this from happening, if his symptoms were anything to go by.

And yet –

Looking at Sherlock, the empty life he led...

John but his lip.

If he could convince Sherlock to life a better life – to choose another life – where John had already dealt with Moriarty (despite everything, that was still his intention; Moriarty had to be stopped, no matter in which timeline) and he could become clean sooner and be a scientist or a philosopher or whatever he chose to be...

Even if this life, this better life, didn't include John...

He was more than ready to sacrifice everything he had been, everything he could have been, if only Sherlock would be safe.

If only Sherlock Holmes would get to lead a happy, safe life –

John Watson didn't care if his own was destroyed in the process.

**Author's note: I have become too enamoured with a minor character of my own making. I apologize; but I can't help it. I just love Shinwell. But at least this chapter had more angst, right? Oh, that's probably not a good thing... Well, I still hope you liked it.**

**Please review.**


	21. Chapter 21

**Author's note: I don't know how that got so angsty... Interesting. Anyway, on with the story.**

**I got my fifty reviews! Thank you.**

**I don't own anything. **

Even though he felt a little better, John asked Shinwell if there was some place he could lie down for a while; it was getting rather later, and he wanted to be able to run when Moriarty decided to start his game.

To his relief, the room Shinwell showed him wasn't as shabby or dirty as could be expected, and the bed looked clean. Perhaps he kept it for his patients.

With a sigh John sunk unto the bed and gladly forgot everything, if only for a few short hours.

He was woken by a loud knock on his door and sat up, alarmed.

John stared at the empty room, wondering why he'd slept there, before remembering what had happened. He fell back into the bed and sighed. Against his better judgement, he'd hoped that this was all a dream or a hallucination and that he'd wake up where he belonged, in Baker Street.

His leg wasn't hurting as much as it had, though, and his hand was steady. John also didn't feel depressed anymore – or, rather, he was still anxious to return and scared he couldn't, not considering the whole situation with Moriarty; but he wasn't giving up.

He had his body and mind under control, for now.

There was another knock and he sat up again, calling "Enter".

Sherlock opened the door. John had never known him to knock on any door – he normally strolled in as if he owned the place – and seeing him so unsure, hesitant even, reminded him once more why he had to get home.

He didn't immediately understand why Sherlock was so unsure, but then the young man cleared his throat and asked, as if the worlds felt unfamiliar on his tongue, "Are you alright?"

He really didn't know how to take care of someone.

John smiled. "I'm fine, thank you".

Sherlock's eyes bored into his and John realized he wouldn't be able to convince him.

He sighed. "I am fine – for now. It... might get worse again any minute."

Sherlock nodded. "What is happening?"

"It doesn't make sense, but somehow, I think – "

"We changed the future?"

John looked at him, surprised. "How do you – "

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "If you were still affected by your... voyage, the symptoms would have shown up a lot sooner. If you had somehow been poisoned, I would have noticed. You ate in front of me. Could be a condition you already had when you arrived, but it is unlikely; you would have told me. Since you are the only one who is affected and we can't be affected because we aren't from the future – it's obvious."

John laughed. "Obvious. Right".

He rubbed his face with his hands.

"What did we change?" When the doctor looked up and stared at him, Sherlock elaborated, "What are your symptoms? Maybe we can change it back."

"It's unlikely" John admitted. "I am an ex-army doctor, remember? I got shot in the left shoulder and had a psychosomatic limb when I returned from the war, because – "

"You're an adrenaline junkie. It wasn't hard to figure out".

John smiled a half-smile and continued, "I guess you could say I was depressed as well – I had nothing to do, the therapy wasn't working, and no one would want a doctor with a shaking hand to treat him".

He took a deep breath before finishing.

"I – the symptoms, all of them disappeared on the day..." he trailed off, expecting Sherlock to know what he was about to say but the young man simply tilted his head to his side with a questioning look and John forced himself to end the sentence. It was difficult, talking about how Sherlock had changed his life, when it looked like he hadn't; when it looked like nothing was how it was supposed to be anymore.

"The day I met you".

Sherlock frowned, then understood. Or at least understood a part of it.

"Because you got enough adrenaline in your system by chasing after killers with me".

John knew explaining their friendship to him – their inexplicable bond, that even he hadn't understood half the time – was hopeless. It was something this Sherlock, who had been surprised at the thought that he had friends in the future, couldn't comprehend.

So he nodded.

And found he couldn't continue; saying it out loud would make it real, and now that he had the symptoms under control, part of him desperately wanted to pretend that this wasn't happening.

Sherlock, of course, needed confirmation that he was right.

"The limp, the shaking hand, even your obvious depression, although that seems to be gone now... These were all symptoms you had before you met me in the future. Since you are starting to experience them again, you didn't meet me. At the very least, we aren't as close as you said we were. You most likely live alone".

"I know" John replied tiredly, and Sherlock looked taken aback.

"I mean – "

"I know, Sherlock. I know what you meant. And you are right."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, then said, "That means my future changed as well."

John looked into his face and couldn't read him. Was Sherlock regretting the times that wouldn't come? Was he relieved that he wouldn't have to put up with a damaged ex-army doctor? John couldn't tell. Maybe Sherlock had never really believed him anyway, and this meant nothing to him; maybe he had believed him and wondered the whole time how to prevent this future where he was stuck with an ordinary flatmate.

He realized that he was slipping towards depression again and forced himself to take deep breaths.

Finally he managed to nod.

Sherlock bit his lip before saying, so quietly that John almost didn't hear it, "It didn't sound as appalling as I expected".

"It wasn't". John sounded bitterer than he would have liked, but he had just lost his best friend, his family and the life he had built up for himself.

"In this case we should fix this" Sherlock stated matter-of-factly and John barely managed not to roll his eyes and smile fondly at the same time. This was the Sherlock he knew so well; once he had decided to do something, he was convinced it would work.

He opened his mouth to ask how, but Sherlock beat him to it.

"There has to be a time machine somewhere around here, some kind of portal; whoever did this to you can't simply have pushed you in the time stream. That you showed up here and met me is too great a coincidence. There has to be some kind of controller, something that made you land here instead of any other time".

John nodded; he understood.

"And, if someone sent you here, it's only logical that they'd eventually want to send you back, too. Because if they wanted you out of the way – "

"They could have just killed me" John said immediately; he was of the same opinion. Especially since they obviously had had to knock him out to even get him in the machine. Or portal or – whatever had sent him back in time.

"Good, then. If we can find it – and we will find it – we don't send you back to the exact moment you disappeared..."

"But a few hours earlier" John interrupted him. "You think I can prevent any of this from happening".

Sherlock nodded. John felt dizzy. Thoughts were racing through his mind.

"But if I do prevent it, won't there be two of me?"

Sherlock was silent, and John quickly thought their plan over.

If he prevented them, whoever they were, from sending him back in time, he would never have been sent back (he was glad he hadn't said that out loud, Sherlock would only have been annoyed by his obvious deduction) and therefore..

"I'll disappear" he stated.

Sherlock shrugged. "Not really. You'll still be there – a little confused as to why another version of you just saved you from whoever attacked you, but – "

"I won't remember all of this. Neither will you."

Sherlock looked pointedly at his leg.

"I believe that is a good thing".

John swallowed; he wanted to get home, and he wanted to forget all of this. But if he did, if this had never happened, if he had never met this young Sherlock...

"What about you?"

Sherlock waved a hand in the air. "I'll be fine. You said we weren't supposed to meet for years. I'll survive – although I have to confess I am a little surprised about that".

This confession hurt more than John cared to admit, and he quickly, without thinking, said, "Sherlock – "

"No, John. I do not feel comfortable talking about – emotions. Let it be".

John realized that the young man would only shut down if he tried to tell him what it meant to him to see Sherlock like this, so he closed his mouth.

Sherlock waited until he was sure John had let the subject dripped as requested before he continued, "Well then. Moriarty".

John's mouth went dry. Whether or not it was possible that neither of them would remember what had happened, to make sure that it had never happened, he still didn't want to discuss the consulting criminal.

He would have to, though. He couldn't allow Sherlock to play games with Moriarty – John shuddered at what he would be able to do to a younger, more vulnerable Sherlock, after all he had done to the more mature consulting detective.

"Like I said, we – met him before. We beat him, but it was... difficult".

He didn't want to say more, and somehow, Sherlock seemed to understand. He probably had read from John's expression that he didn't want to explain; maybe he preferred the surprise; either way, John was glad because there had been so many ways to prevent Sherlock faking his suicide, and – the doctor had ultimately let him down. To his dying day he would regret leaving Sherlock in the lab, yelling at him that he was a machine – and of course his last words, "Friends protect people".

In hindsight, how very ironic.

But, much as the memories hurt, they told John something about Moriarty.

"He likes to play" he said, slowly, "and he makes things appear more complicated than they are".

Sherlock had told him everything about the scene on the roof. How Moriarty had taken his own life. How he'd faked his death for his friends.

"So you are saying..."

"He likes to manipulate people, that's what I am saying". John bit his lip before continuing, "especially when he's fascinated by them."

And Sherlock had done enough to make sure the consulting criminal was fascinated by him. And John hadn't prevented it because he had been too distracted by his leg and his hand and his state of mind but he should have, he should have...

Another thought entered his mind, unbidden, and he had to ask.

"Sherlock – why don't you deduce people? You are obviously able to do it, but you only do it with a select few. Why?"

He swore to himself never to tell his Sherlock that he'd asked; not after all the times he'd tried to teach him something about social conventions.

He was surprised when the young man wouldn't meet his eyes.

"I used to – when I was younger. But then – it doesn't matter."

"What doesn't?"

"Nothing." John realized that he didn't mean the doctor shouldn't pry, but that he had taken the decision not to be interested in his surroundings because it was easier.

"Maybe you should start again" he suggested. If there was one thing Sherlock Holmes had always been, for as long as John had known him, it was interested. And perhaps it was a mistake – who could tell? – but the doctor needed him to be his conceited, deducing self.

Sherlock looked up to meet his gaze and then, after a second that seemed to last forever, smiled.

"Maybe. After all, what would a consulting detective be without the Science of Deduction?"

**Author's note: I felt I should explain Sherlock's choice not to deduce everyone he meets. Also, very little plot in this chapter because i got distracted by the bromance.**

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


	22. Chapter 22

**Author's note: Who got reviews? I got reviews! Thank you! I'm so happy.**

**I don't own anything. **

After they had talked about the Science of Deduction, Sherlock all but fled the room, claiming that John „needed his rest"; the doctor watched him go with a smile – Sherlock was obviously uncomfortable with the sentiment he'd just displayed.

The smile, however, dropped as soon as the young man had left the room.

They still had to deal with Moriarty, and only after they had done so they could try and put their plan of getting John home into motion, the plan it was making his head ache just to think about.

And if they succeeded – and he had to wish, hope, pray that they succeeded, otherwise he was stuck here with a limp and a depression – none of this would have happened.

If only he could have been relieved by the fact.

But the truth was that – he couldn't stop thinking about the young, homeless, friendless Sherlock.

Once he managed to reverse all of this, to stop himself travelling into the past, Sherlock would go on as he had before. He would walk the path that would eventually lead him to becoming the World's only consulting detective, and therefore meeting the doctor.

But until then –

Until then he would have to live through drug overdoses, fight for his life on the streets, having already given up on himself before he met Mrs. Hudson and Greg. He would be alone.

And John didn't know exactly how Sherlock's future had changed. For all he knew, it could be better than the one he remembered. Maybe he had gone back to university, maybe he had made his peace with Mycroft, maybe he had become a philosopher...

His thoughts were just running away from him now, John realized. He had to concentrate, and he had to choose the path that was best for everyone in the long run.

Even though if it came to a choice between his and Sherlock's happiness, there was no question what he would do.

He could imagine his Sherlock's reaction; but his best friend had already given his life up once so that his friends could be safe.

It was John's turn.

He shook himself; he couldn't already think of self-sacrifice when he had no reason to suppose it was necessary. He would have to cross that bridge when he came to it.

For now, what mattered was Moriarty and his game.

And for all he knew – no game Moriarty had played had ever ended without casualties.

Only then became John aware of what he had done.

Yes, he may have the chance to prevent any of this from happening – but what if he didn't? And anyway, he hadn't know about it when he had simply gone and talked to Moriarty.

But he had done it anway.

And put God knows how many people in danger.

He, who had become a doctor to help people, had gone into the army to save people.

And here he was, not only bringing his friends – Sherlock, Greg, even Shinwell, who had looked after the young man, had saved his life on numerous occasions – in danger, but other people, civilians, people he didn't even know, people who might be supposed to do something great in the future, which meant he was changing everything yet again if he caused any harm to befall them, too.

For a moment, he was stunned that he had really thought the only way to stop Jim Moriarty was to engage him in a game.

Then he grew angry at himself.

After all he had watched Sherlock go through – after all his best friend had told him (even though it had been precious little) – he was making the exact same mistake.

And he was supposed to be the one to look after Sherlock Holmes.

Of course, it would be difficult to do anything against Moriarty when there was no proof –

Good God, he was an idiot.

Who did he know who must know about Moriarty too, who still cared about his little brother although they hadn't spoken to each other in years?

He stood up and made his way to the door. He opened it cautiously and peaked out; neither Shinwell nor Sherlock were in sight.

It wasn't that he didn't believe they would understand him; but he had every reason to believe that Sherlock would disapprove of asking his brother for help.

In his time, he wouldn't have asked Mycroft, obviously; and he still didn't want to admit that he needed his help; but this British Government hadn't betrayed his brother, he hadn't done anything –

No, that wasn't right. But while he had allowed Sherlock to get into drugs and slip under the radar, he hadn't given a criminal mastermind all the information he needed to destroy his little brother, and John clung to the thought.

Because he needed Mycroft Holmes' help.

He didn't like the thought, naturally. In his time, he barely managed to greet Mycroft without punching him in the face; Sherlock knew and usually told him when he suspected his brother might come by to force him to take a case (or check that he was alright, although the British Government would never admit that he did that) so that John could leave and not run into him.

But he did need his help.

He wasn't a genius; he wouldn't be able to win a game against Moriarty.

And he wasn't even willing to play. All Moriarty's games had ever caused was pain. He had seen what the game had done to everyone he cared for; he wouldn't allow Moriarty to harm someone again. He wouldn't allow him to become what he knew he would.

And he wanted to get home. He should have thought of it sooner, but it hadn't occurred to him. So long, he had tried to deny to himself that Mycroft Holmes even existed; while Sherlock had been gone, he had found it unbearable to think that someone would trade his own flesh and blood for information. Sherlock hadn't seen it that way, had never blamed his brother, but John, even though he had had no right to ask for an apology to begin with, had never been able to forgive him. He had betrayed Sherlock.

But now he needed him anyway.

If he was truly going to destroy Moriarty (and, since he didn't know if he would return, he had to destroy someone who would bring so much pain into the world that was to come), if he was going to stop him once and for all –

He needed Mycroft Holmes.

John somehow managed to get out of the house without either Shinwell or his young patient noticing, hoping that Sherlock was finally getting some rest. He certainly needed it.

Naturally, he didn't have Mycroft's office number, didn't even have a phone; but he knew that wasn't necessary.

But there were always other ways.

So he walked for about a quarter of an hour – and once again been admitted to himself that Sherlock had been right when he had called him an adrenaline junkie, since his leg was giving him no trouble whatsoever and his hand wasn't shaking either. He would have liked to believe that the future was somehow righting itself, that the only reason he wasn't limping was that he was living with Sherlock, but he was still feeling a little off, like a stranger in his own skin, and he wouldn't lie to himself about something so important.

He didn't know where he was – even if he had, it wouldn't have mattered, seeing how he couldn't remember every street from twenty years ago – but he knew what he was looking for.

Finally he spotted a security camera, and since he knew that even in the year 1995, Mycroft had kept an eye out for people who looked after his brother, he waved to it. He was sure the elder Holmes would understand what he meant.

He was proven right shortly after he had found a larger street. He had barely waited for ten minutes before a limousine stopped next to him. John got in and wasn't surprised to find that Mycroft was in it waiting for him. He hadn't really expected that he'd choose to have Melas pick him up; not when he certainly had already learned who Moriarty was and what they were trying to do.

"Mycroft" he greeted him as he sat down next to him.

The elder Holmes raised an eyebrow and John realized that he would have to be honest with him if he wanted to get anywhere.

"John. John Watson".

"So, John, was is this about?"

"Did you ever hear about someone called Moriarty?"

Mycroft didn't say anything, but John knew he was right; the British Government already knew about the consulting criminal.

Now he only had to admit that he'd somehow dragged Sherlock into his path and ask him for help.

Easier said than done, unfortunately.

**Author's note: Sorry for the shorter chapter.**

**I realized John wouldn't want to play games with Moriarty. And hey, Mycroft is back! Story, where are you going? You didn't tell me.**

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


	23. Chapter 23

**Author's note: I got even more followers, even though this is certainly my most complicated and bleakest story to date. Thank you. It means a lot.**

**I don't own anything. **

„I do not understand why…"

John sighed. "Please, don't pretend you don't know that Sherlock and I went to his office."

Mycroft mustered him with something like respect, and John wondered what he would think if he told him that he came from the future and therefore knew him so well.

"Yes, I am aware of your movements. I do not understand, however, why you should visit one of the most dangerous man in the city with my brother and a recently promoted DS."

"He killed someone – one of his informants..."

"I am aware of that as well. But why do you insist on dragging my brother into the investigation? Why are you so adamant about bringing Jim Moriarty to justice to begin with?"

John swallowed and looked into Mycroft's calm face.

_Because he will use you as his puppet and Sherlock will lose three years of his life._

The words lay heavy on his tongue, ready to spill out, but he needed Mycroft's help.

And, he reminded himself again, he hadn't betrayed his brother yet. He couldn't act around him like he did around the British Government in his own time, where he tried to be polite but failed most of the time because he would never be able to forgive anyone betraying Sherlock. Just like he would never forgive himself for leaving him alone in the lab.

He shook his head to clear himself from his memories, and Mycroft raised an eyebrow but chose not comment on it, although he was probably already sure that he was talking to a madman.

John finally answered, because he couldn't imagine saying anything else, "He hurt someone I care about".

"And now you are working on a case with a young drug addict. And you have –"

"I know what I did" John interrupted him, suddenly angry. "I know that Moriarty knows about Sherlock because of me. But I also know that he ate, and I'm rather sure he slept, and he's used less since we met".

"He ate?"

Mycroft was genuinely surprised, and John felt strangely pleased with himself.

The British Government studied him once again, apparently trying to deduce more about him, to find out why someone so ordinary could have so much influence over his brother, but John was confident he wouldn't think of the possibility of the doctor being from the future. No one would. And he had put his phone in the innermost pocket of his jacket to make sure there would be no indication it was there like a bulge in a pocket.

Obviously living with Sherlock Holmes had taught him a few things about covering his tracks.

"Why?" Mycroft suddenly asked, staring John in the eyes, and the doctor couldn't resist.

"Because he was hungry."

"Please, Mr. Watson – "

"Doctor". For a moment, he had considered telling Mycroft to call him by his first name, simply because he was so used to it that hearing the elder Holmes calling him "Mister Watson" sounded strange. But Mycroft would certainly disapprove of the familiarity this offer implied.

"Doctor Watson – why do you care about my brother? Why do you look after him?"

"Funny. Just a minute ago, you didn't sound like you thought I was doing a good job of it".

John realized what he had just said; in the next second he felt a stab of pain in his leg. He flinched and could have sworn he saw something like concern in Mycroft's eyes, although he didn't know if it was for his health, his sanity or his little brother.

The doctor tried to focus on why he was talking to the elder Holmes and said, "Sorry. I didn't mean to sound like that. I care about him because – " he stopped, unsure of how to proceed, but finally continued "I helped him. I feel responsible for him".

It wasn't the truth, or at least it was only a small part of the truth, but apparently it was enough for Mycroft.

This time John was sure he didn't imagine the worry in the other man's eyes. He couldn't blame him. If a stranger had shown up and decided to take his little brother to crime scenes, he would be worried too.

"Why did you want to talk?"

Mycroft thankfully didn't say anything that must at this moment run through his head, and John clenched his shaking hand into a fist. Now came the difficult part.

"I don't want to have Moriarty arrested" he replied flatly.

He knew Mycroft would read his thoughts.

He also knew that the British Government would disapprove.

"I do believe that Mr. Moriarty could, in time, prove useful – "

And John snapped.

"No he won't" he said, his voice as cold as eyes, and Mycroft looked at him, startled, but before he could say anything, John continued, "He will become the most dangerous man in the city, if he isn't already. He will destroy lives. Nothing he could give you, no information, no lead, is worth it. He has to die".

Once upon a time, when he had studied medicine because he had wanted to help people, he would never have believed that he would say those words so matter-of-factly. But he was a different John Watson from the one he had run into at St. Bart's. And he would do everything that was necessary to make sure Moriarty would never hurt someone again.

"I confess myself to be surprised, Doctor Watson. I did not think you would – "

"I was a soldier, as I am certain you already deduced about me. And I know what kind of a person Moriarty is."

"And how did an ex-army doctor meet a young man determined to build his own criminal empire?"

"You can do or say what you want, but I won't tell you". Sherlock might believe him, but Mycroft certainly wouldn't. Yes, he had his phone, but there were many other possible explanations as to why he would own it.

Mycroft opened his mouth, but John interrupted him again.

"I won't tell you. Believe me."

Mycroft's face hardened and John realized he had made a mistake.

"Very well. If you are so –"

"Don't. Please." He hadn't wanted to beg the British Government, but he had read in Mycroft's face (and he was painfully aware that this had only been possible because the elder Holmes had allowed it) that his bravado was getting him nowhere; if Mycroft considered him a danger to his younger brother, and there was every reason to suppose that he did, he wouldn't hesitate in having John brought somewhere not even his Sherlock would be able to find him.

There was only one thing John could think that might be able to convince Mycroft that he had to let him go.

"Please. I know Moriarty is going to harm Sherlock."

"This doesn't make any sense".

He should have known that it wouldn't work; he should have known that asking Mycroft for help wasn't a good idea.

"Doctor Watson. Would you care to explain to me why you are after Moriarty, why you are looking out for my brother, and why you decline to answer my questions?"

John took a deep breath. Once again, he admitted to himself that he had to tell the truth; he simply wasn't able to keep his secret. He was sure Sherlock would have been, but he wasn't the World's only consulting detective; he was simply and ex-army doctor in a strange situation, trying desperately to get home.

He had to convince Mycroft that he wasn't insane, and that he had reasons for murder; he had to convince him to help John to get rid of Moriarty once and for all. And Mycroft Holmes wouldn't stop until he'd got the truth out of him. And John really didn't want to know the method he would employ. He had to tell him the truth. He decided to start at the beginning.

"My name _is_ John Watson. I was born on September 8, 1970." When he saw Mycroft open his mouth, looking angry, he raised his right hand. "Hear me out. I am forty-five years old. I come from the year 2015". He paused for a moment and bit his lip. He didn't know how to say it, so he simply went with, "I am your brother's best friend and flatmate."

Mycroft blinked.

"You come from the future" he repeated. "You are Sherlock's best friend".

"Yes. I know it's difficult to believe – "

Surprisingly, Mycroft didn't seem shocked.

"Go on."

John continued, "I woke up here yesterday. I had only left our flat to get some groceries. I don't know what happened."

At least he had stunned Mycroft Holmes into silence (and probably changed the future yet again, perhaps even more than he already had). John looked down at his clenched hands and waited for a reaction.

He wasn't surprised when Mycroft stated, "You are aware that I have to verify your statements before – "

"Yes" John answered tiredly, "but please, hurry. I don't want Sherlock to think I left him."

Mycroft exited the car without another word, and John wasn't certain whether he was calling someone to arrest him or to check if there was indeed a John Watson who fit all the criteria. He breathed a sigh of relief when he heard Mycroft give instructions to Melas.

The elder Holmes didn't return to the limousine, and John was glad. He wasn't keen of awkward silences.

Only when he heard another car drive away did he become aware that Mycroft had left – probably to get the information as soon as possible in this age without mobile phones.

He returned half an hour later when John was just beginning to wonder if he should try to leave.

His face was blank as a mask as he sat down next to him.

John waited for him to say something, anything, but he didn't. After a minute's silence, John decided to ask.

"Well?"

Normally he wouldn't be so straightforward with Mycroft; normally he would not even ask him for help. But somehow – John couldn't take it anymore. Not with his hand shaking again, not when he could feel the traitorous depressing thoughts crawling back, not when he had to concentrate just to remember why he was doing this.

"There is a John Watson who was born on the day you mentioned, and he bears a striking resemblance to you, not regarding the age difference."

"It's me."

John wished any of the science fiction books he'd loved to read had told him how to convince someone that he existed in fact two times now, that he was the elder form of the young doctor who was so proud of soon helping his country, but they hadn't. And he couldn't tell what Mycroft was thinking.

What the British Government finally said took him by surprise.

"So it did work". John raised his head and frowned.

"What worked?"

"The time travelling device a few secret labs have worked on for four years now" Mycroft answered simply.

"There is a – " John put his head in his hands. "Of course there is. Why am I even asking?" It would have been almost impossible for anyone to build a time machine to begin with; but to keep it hidden from the public... one would need the approval of the Government.

He was an idiot.

He looked up. "And you believe me?"

"Like I already mentioned, it is highly unlikely that someone would use such an incredible story to make me trust him". Mycroft's eyes darkened. "I will have you know that I do not tolerate people lying to me, though".

John nodded.

"Now – what did you say about Sherlock and Moriarty?"

**Author's note: So, how do you think this is going? Because I would really like some more reviews. Because I am greedy. Sorry for the begging. **


	24. Chapter 24

**Author's note: Thank you for the reviews. Apparently begging helps. What can I say? I just love reviews. It's wonderful to know that people like what I am reading. Also, thanks to my new followers. **

**I don't own anything. **

There was no easy way to say it, so John told Mycroft simply, „He tried to force Sherlock to commit suicide. He didn't succeed, but – it cost him three years of his life".

He didn't tell him about Mycroft's betrayal; there was no need. And he didn't want to be reminded of it either, not when he was working with the elder Holmes.

Even Mycroft needed a few moments to come to terms with this revelation, before he asked, his voice a little strained, "And why will Moriarty target Sherlock?"

He thought it would be his fault; and whether or not it was, considered his and Sherlock's lives, John found himself unable to answer. But Mycroft obviously believed that his position would be the reason for Moriarty to go after Sherlock, and so John replied, "Sherlock – he's going to become the World's only consulting detective. He will solve crimes. And then he will come across Moriarty, and - He will be – It's – "

"Moriarty is not boring" Mycroft stated. John could only nod.

"Sherlock is going to solve crimes?"

It wasn't what John had expected Mycroft to ask next, if at all. The elder Holmes sounded... if it had been anyone else, the doctor would have said he sounded caring. Surprised. Happy, even.

John had been convinced that Mycroft had given up on Sherlock for selfish reasons; that he hadn't wanted anything to harm his career.

He hadn't considered that the British Government, much as he tried to hide it, had a heart and did care for his brother. He had been concerned after Irene Adler's death; he had grieved for Sherlock, even though John hadn't wanted to see it at the time.

Yes, Mycroft had left Sherlock alone when he had gone to university. Yes, Mycroft had allowed Sherlock to slip under his radar.

And yet he had never been able to completely distance himself from his little brother.

The one crack in the Ice Man's armour.

"And you want to make sure it doesn't happen. You are aware that this could changed the future..."

John laughed bitterly, and Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "You already did" he added.

John raised his left hand. The elder Holmes took it and inspected it like he had on the day he'd first had John kidnapped.

"An intermittent tremor. I assume it's –"

"Yes. It happens when I – miss the war" John admitted. Mycroft already knew anyway. He had certainly deduced that John had been in the army and that he had been shot. There was no point in lying.

"By your reaction, am I safe to think that it should not be there?"

John let his hand drop in his lap and shook his hand. "The tremor and my psychosomatic limp disappeared on the day I met Sherlock. They didn't resurface until..." He bit his lip. He really should be used to talking about the three lost years by now, but he wasn't and perhaps would never be.

Mycroft, of course, read his thoughts and waited for him to continue, polite as always.

"Anyway, they were gone until I came here. And then there are all kinds of depressing thoughts running through my head... I changed the future. There can be no other explanation. I'm not living with Sherlock anymore".

His voice broke a little and he turned his head away to compose himself.

Mycroft was silent for a moment. Then he said, "That means Sherlock's future changed as well".

John nodded.

"Do not worry, Doctor Watson –"

"John, please. Call me John".

Mycroft didn't continue immediately, and John feared he wouldn't want to call him by his first name. The urge to correct him had been idiotic, of course, and it would change nothing if Mycroft did; but the doctor would be reminded once again why he was doing this, why he was going after Moriarty. And it would distract him from the thoughts crowding in on him.

"John". Mycroft seemed surprised with himself, apparently not used to calling people by their first name. "If the time machine does indeed function in the future, it can here, too. Therefore, if we –"

"Send me back before someone ever puts me in it, I can prevent all of this from happening" John continued and enjoyed Mycroft's stunned silence for a moment before admitting, "Sherlock had the same idea".

"Sherlock knows?"

"I had to tell him. He wouldn't have come with me otherwise".

Mycroft nodded. "Does he believe you?"

"I think I'm not boring. More than that – I can't say."

Mycroft nodded again and said, matter-of-factly, "We will go to the research facility immediately. I can promise you that Moriarty will be taken care of – "

"No".

The British Government blinked. "No?"

"No" John repeated, determined.

"But it doesn't matter who takes care of Moriarty, especially if all of this never happened to begin with" Mycroft argued.

"I don't expect you to understand" John said, slowly. "But I have to do it".

For so long, he had been feeling guilty because he had let Sherlock alone. Because he had never taken out Moriarty when he'd had the chance. He should have killed him at the pool, he should have done away with him in court; what would it have mattered if he died or was arrested in the process? Now, at least, he had the chance to protect Sherlock.

And of course –

He didn't know if their plan would work, if he would really get home. If he didn't, if he never saw his Sherlock again, if he slowly forgot who he was and spent the rest of his life limping through the wrong time, alone and depressed, he wanted something to cling, something he had done. Maybe it was selfish; he couldn't say. But there was something he could do, and he would do it.

Mycroft didn't answer, and John feared he would simply tell the driver to start the limousine and he wouldn't be allowed anywhere near Moriarty, when he said, "At the moment, Moriarty is busy building up a smuggling ring in the East of town. I have been informed that he will meet with the leader on Broadland Street at 9 pm tomorrow evening".

John looked up and was taken aback by the raw caring in Mycroft's eyes.

"Be careful. For Sherlock's sake".

"I will" John promised, although he wasn't sure he could keep it.

The elder Holmes nodded.

"Very well. Once you have accomplished your task, you know how to get my attention".

The doctor nodded and left the limousine with a simply "Thank you".

He quickly realized that Mycroft had left him within an easy walking distance from Shinwell's house and made his way there as fast as he could. He didn't want Sherlock to think that he had abandoned him.

He found Shinwell in the miraculously still working kitchen. The other man looked relieved when John entered.

"I told him you hadn't just left".

John swallowed; he didn't want to imagine what Sherlock had done after he'd realized he wasn't there.

"Where is he?"

"Getting supplies".

John sighed and accepted the coffee Shinwell gave him.

"I don't want to pry, but where were you?"

"I met – an acquaintance of mine".

He didn't believe Sherlock had told Shinwell about his brother, and the – his colleague (he was looking after homeless people, cleaning their wounds, keeping them alive, doing enough to be called a doctor in John's book) probably wouldn't take it too well that he had met with Sherlock's brother before telling the young man.

"Someone who can help you?" Shinwell's eyes bored into his, and John forced himself not to look away.

"Yes. Someone who can help both of us". He was sure that Shinwell would understand what he meant, and he wasn't disappointed. The other man simply nodded and gave him some toast.

Sherlock returned half an hour later, stumbling into the kitchen. Both John and Shinwell were immediately at his side. The doctor quickly took his pulse and shook his head.

"I don't think it's an overdose".

Shinwell sighed with relief and they brought Sherlock to bed.

Shinwell left John alone with Sherlock, and the doctor dragged a chair to his bedside and sat down.

He looked at his hand; it was still shaking, and he desperately hoped he was imagining that the tremor was worse.

John looked at the prone form on the bed and gently brought his right hand up to Sherlock's forehead to check his temperature. He had been right; Sherlock hadn't taken an overdose.

Just as he was pulling his hand back, Sherlock opened his eyes.

"Mycroft" he slurred. "You met Mycroft again".

"Yes" John replied. "Get some rest".

They would have to talk once Sherlock was sober, or as close to sober as he could get; the doctor would have to tell him that not only did Mycroft know the location of the time machine, but that he had given him the information they needed to destroy Moriarty as well; and that –

He would have to tell Sherlock that he'd leave.

He shouldn't worry about this Sherlock, since, if everything went to plan, he wouldn't remember ever having met John, but he couldn't help it. He was so young, so vulnerable. And he had no one to look after him.

If John succeeded – and he desperately needed to succeed – Sherlock wouldn't quit the cocaine for another five years. Five years on the streets.

John knew it had to be that way if he wanted everything to go back to normal, but that didn't make it easier to leave this Sherlock behind.

Sherlock didn't stir until the late afternoon; John spent the time he wasn't watching over him resting, talking to Shinwell (although he was careful not to mention any detail about his military service in Afghanistan – the other man would notice immediately that something was wrong, that John hadn't served at the time he had) and wondering where he could get a weapon. He would have to ask Sherlock.

Or so he thought.

Around midday, when he was sitting at Sherlock's bedside again, waiting for him to come down from his high, Shinwell came into the room and handed him a gun.

John looked at him, stunned, and the other man said softly, "I know you are "working the case" but you are not the police. And I know he hurt someone you cared about. Just – be sure you know what you are doing".

The doctor could only nod, and Shinwell left the room to look after his patient.

John could hear them coming and going all day; he stayed away from the room Shinwell treated them in. This wasn't his time, or his place; they were Shinwell's responsibility, and John understood the other man well enough to realize he would ask for help if he needed it.

At about five pm, Sherlock opened his eyes. John gave him a half-smile as he sat up.

"I didn't think you'd come back" the young man said.

The doctor simply answered, "I was always going to come back. I just realized we needed some help – "

"From Mycroft" Sherlock spat, and John looked down. He had known Sherlock wouldn't approve of him asking his brother for help.

"I know where Moriarty is going to be tomorrow evening".

Sherlock narrowed his eyes before stating, "You are going to kill him".

Of course he had noticed the gun in John's pocket; of course he could deduce what the doctor was going to do.

"Yes."

"Because he killed – " John remembered the answer he had given Sherlock to his question if Moriarty had killed someone John had cared about – "Something like it" – and flinched and Sherlock's brows furrowed.

"Because he is going to kill me".

He said it matter-of-factly, as if his death didn't matter, as if his well-being wasn't important, and John replied, "No. But he is going to hurt you. And I can't allow that."

"But if we find the time machine – "

"I know. Mycroft said the same. He knows where it is located. But it doesn't matter. First I deal with Moriarty".

He added, "You can stay here" because he really didn't want to put Sherlock in danger. He knew that he could only make Sherlock and offer to stay behind, though; the consulting detective had never obeyed orders.

The young man only glared at him.

"I am coming with you. I'm working the case, am I not?"

John, despite his worries for Sherlock's safety, couldn't help but smile.

**Author's note: I didn't expect to spend so much time with John's and Mycroft's conversation, but – alright. This whole fic doesn't go the way I thought it would, although I have to admit that I quite like how it turned out so far.**

**I hope you do too, please review.**


	25. Chapter 25

**Author's note: Thanks for the reviews! Let's see where this is going, shall we?**

**I don't own anything.**

John, while being more patient than Sherlock, who kept complaining that he was bored, found that the wait until the next day was a very long one indeed.

By the time they had eaten – dinner the doctor insisting that Sherlock had to have something too – it was dark outside. John looked at his watch. 8 pm.

Twenty-five more hours of waiting and he was already getting desperate.

Especially since he wouldn't be able to prevent Sherlock from slipping out and buying more drugs. And he didn't even want to know where the young man got the money from.

The boredom was accelerating Sherlock's withdrawal symptoms, as John knew from experience, and watching him becoming more and more desperate for his next fix was painful. He had seen his best friend on what they had called "danger nights", but it had never been like this; there had never been this hunger in Sherlock's eyes, this need for the drugs that eclipsed all others, and the doctor swore to himself that once he returned, he would tell the consulting detective that he trusted him and that he knew, just knew that he wasn't really in danger on danger nights. That he could simply do experiments in the kitchen or talk to John or play his violin if it made him feel better, but that he was certain Sherlock would never give in, would resist the cravings.

He knew it now, when he saw how he looked when he couldn't.

John tried to hide his worry that Sherlock would take too much simply because he couldn't bear the boredom, but didn't succeed. About ten pm, the young man snapped at him that he could take care of himself and left. John didn't doubt that he would come back, but he didn't want to imagine in which state. He rubbed his face with his hands and sighed.

"I thought he wouldn't last that long" Shinwell's voice came from behind him, and John turned around.

The other man smiled. "I know you don't think so, but you've done a lot for him. More than I ever thought anyone could."

"I still wish..."

"You can't expect him to quit the drugs just like that."

And John almost laughed because even though he was young and homeless and unsure this was Sherlock and Sherlock Holmes always did what he wanted. He didn't want to quit the drugs, though.

Shinwell saw that he didn't want to talk about it and asked, "John... I was wondering... Could you help me out a little? You're a real doctor after all, and most of my patients don't seem to understand that I'm not."

John agreed because it was a better option than waiting for time to pass and Sherlock to come back.

He helped out Shinwell with one or two teenagers who thought they had taken too much but thankfully hadn't, as well as a guy who had a stab wound in his hand and wouldn't tell them how it had happened.

Shinwell didn't ask questions, and John understood that he never did. Not only was it the only way he could do his job – for lack of a better word – but it was the only way he could get his patients to trust him, as well. And he needed them to trust him because he needed to take care of them because no one else did.

And trust him they did. None of them questioned John's presence.

Shinwell would have made a good doctor under any circumstances, and he wasn't bad now. He might not have taught himself how to clean or stitch up a wound, but he had learned. Probably in the war. He wouldn't have needed John's help, but the doctor was thankful for the distraction.

After he had cleaned the stab victim's wound, just as Shinwell was preparing to clean it, they heard the door open and Sherlock coming in.

He shot the other man a look and left.

Sherlock was in the kitchen.

"I bought enough to last until tomorrow" he said and John nodded.

He didn't know what to say, to be honest, since he simply couldn't bring himself to answer "Good" or something like that and Sherlock wouldn't take kindly to reprimands.

So he decided not to comment on it and instead said, "Shinwell's taking care of a patient".

"He usually is at this time of the day".

John's curiosity finally got the best of him and he asked, "How did you meet?"

Sherlock shrugged. "A dealer decided he wanted more money than I was willing to pay. I was able to fight him off but wasn't sure if I had cracked a rib or not. I met Victor by accident. He suggested I went to Shinwell".

"I thought you said you barely knew each other?"

"We were both high at the time" Sherlock replied as if it was the most logical thing in the world.

John nodded.

"Why do you care so much?" Sherlock suddenly inquired and John looked at him, puzzled.

"I already told you that – "

Sherlock waved his hands in the air.

"I know. But you are going to return to your time, and you will prevent any of this from happening. And even before you knew you could – you were already aware I'd quit the drugs eventually. I must have been clean when we met, otherwise you wouldn't have moved in."

John didn't say the first thing that came to mind – the scary thought that he would have moved in with Sherlock whether he was on drugs or not because that was how things should be – and answered, "It doesn't work like that".

"Sentiment?"

"Sentiment" John confirmed, and Sherlock nodded.

He bit his lip and let his gaze sweep over the room before settling on John again.

"What is your plan?"

John was used to Sherlock quickly changing the subject, especially if he felt uncomfortable with the topic of the conversation to begin with, and replied, matter-of-factly, "To kill Moriarty."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Obviously. I meant whether you honestly believe that you can simply walk up to him and shoot him."

John had to admit that he hadn't thought much past this point, but of course Moriarty wasn't going to come alone. He would most likely have at least one sniper in the vicinity, if not Moran, then someone else, and the doctor would be dead before he came close enough to fire the shot.

Sherlock shook his head. "You are an idiot".

"Practically everyone is" John answered automatically and continued, "So what do you suggest?"

Sherlock's eyes sparkled. "We should check the meeting place so we know where Moriarty's back-up is most likely to hide. I presume you know enough of snipers to find the best places for them?"

John nodded. He suspected that Sherlock's determination to take a look at the meeting place was in part motivated by how bored he was becoming, but it was a good idea.

"It will be best to wait until daylight. I don't want to take any chances of us overlooking anything."

He wouldn't risk Sherlock's life more than he already had.

The young man didn't seem to be able to read his thoughts for once (because he wasn't used to someone caring for him, John figured) and frowned before sighing.

"Alright. You want to stay here?"

"Yes, we'll stay here."

It was still strange, telling Sherlock to do something and actually seeing him do it. It was so utterly weird, John being more of a father figure than a friend to this young drug addict, but, the doctor suddenly realized, he was getting used to it.

He had to return home as soon as possible. He didn't want to get used to it. They had met at a time when they had both been what the other needed, and now... Their dynamic was off.

He had to get back to where he was supposed to be.

After he had taken care of Moriarty, of course.

He left Sherlock with a cup of tea in the kitchen, pretending to himself that he wouldn't shoot up when the doctor didn't watch, and went to the room he'd slept in.

He carefully looked over the gun Shinwell had given him. It was clean and obviously hadn't been fired recently. John chose not to think about where Shinwell could have gotten it from.

He was sure that he could kill Moriarty if he got within shooting distance. He was a good shot, and the only thing he had to make certain was that the first bullet would kill the consulting criminal.

Part of him wished that he didn't enjoy the thought of committing murder so much, but another, bigger part of him was glad that it would be he who'd pull the trigger this time.

There was a knock on his door. John looked at his watch and was surprised to find that it was after one am.

Shinwell entered after he'd called out, and suddenly, the doctor was scared that Sherlock had taken off.

He hated himself for it in the next moment. There was no reason to think Sherlock would leave. Also, Shinwell wouldn't have knocked and waited patiently for him to answer if that had been the case.

He recognized his reaction as another symptom of his slowly returning depression and clenched his left hand into a fist before it could start shaking again.

Moriarty. He had to stop Moriarty. He had to concentrate on the task at hand.

"Quiet night. I was wondering if you'd like some tea".

John nodded thankfully and stood up, putting the gun in his pocket. "Where is Sherlock?"

"I just checked on him. He's sleeping off the drugs. He was lucid though when I talked to him an hour ago, so I'd say it won't take long".

Once they were sitting in the kitchen with steaming cups in front of them, Shinwell cleared his throat.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Sherlock mentioned something – before he went to bed..." the other man trailed off for a moment, obviously unsure if he should continue, and John gave him a half-smile.

"Once you are done with – what you have to do – you are going to leave?"

His gaze bored into John's and the doctor swallowed. How could he explain to Shinwell not only that he had to leave, but that it was all fine because they wouldn't remember John ever having been there to begin with?

"It's true, then". Shinwell looked in his cup. "I'm not saying I expected anything different – you obviously have a home to get back to – but..." he looked back up at John. "I'm – still – you are good for Sherlock. I didn't think he'd ever meet anyone he could trust, anyone he would like, even. And then suddenly you turned up. I didn't believe my eyes when he dragged you in. He was worried about you".

He sounded surprised, as if he still couldn't believe what he was saying, and John felt even guiltier than he already did because he would have to leave.

How utterly illogical it was, how utterly and incredibly illogical. But this was Sherlock, and he would leave him on the streets, and every instinct of John's screamed against it.

"Shinwell – I have to leave."

"I know. Like I said – you are not like us. You have a home".

John wondered whether he should tell the other man that Sherlock could have one too, if he decided to contact Mycroft and ask for his help (as unlikely as it was) but decided against it. If Sherlock wanted Shinwell to know, he'd tell him. John wouldn't gossip about his best friend's life.

So he didn't and simply sipped his tea, content for the moment to just keep Shinwell company and grateful for his.

**Author's note: I am rather sure that something will happen in the next chapter, although I can't be certain.**

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


	26. Chapter 26

**Author's note: This story has so many followers... I can't tell you how grateful I am. Just to know that someone cares enough about my work to want to know when it's updated is amazing.**

**I don't own anything. **

As Shinwell had predicted, Sherlock didn't sleep long. They didn't hear him stand up, and he didn't come into the kitchen; but shortly before three am, they became aware of a melody drifting through the house, and John's heart clenched at the familiar sound of Sherlock's violin.

He recognized the song; the consulting detective had often played it late at night, when he'd felt stuck on a case and had thought John was asleep. The doctor had never let him know that he'd heard it.

"That's where it's been, then" he mumbled to himself, Shinwell temporarily forgotten as he listened.

He hadn't thought about Sherlock's violin until this moment, but he remembered now that the consulting detective had told him once that it had been a present from Mycroft on his sixteenth birthday. And the doctor couldn't imagine Sherlock ever leaving the instrument behind. He should have wondered where it was sooner.

Apparently he left it in Shinwell's house, which told John just how much he trusted the other man, even if he wouldn't admit it.

"You know about his violin? He told you?"

John remembered that he wasn't alone in the kitchen and looked at Shinwell. It was easiest to nod and not try and explain that he knew about the violin, recognized the melody and was used to Sherlock's habit of playing in the night.

"He keeps it in my room" the other man explained, "It's the only one with a lock that's still functioning. Not that anyone would look for anything valuable in there – I don't own anything except the clothes on my back and the band-aids – but Sherlock is fond of the violin".

"He must trust you" John answered quietly, "if he keeps it in your house".

Shinwell shrugged. "I believe it's more of a question who he distrusts the least."

John thought different but didn't say so.

They sat still, listening to the music, and John wondered if Sherlock always played this tune because he felt stuck; in his life, his addiction. He hadn't played it often after the doctor had moved into 221B; but when he had, it had always been when he couldn't find that one clue, that one motive, and it was driving him crazy. In the darkest and stillest hours of the night.

Or at least John had thought so, since the melody only came floating into his room during long and challenging cases.

He couldn't help but ask himself if he'd perhaps interpreted it wrongly.

If Sherlock wasn't playing the music because he was stuck on a case –

But if being stuck on a case caused him to remember. If the memories were the reason he played this melody.

He'd come down the next time he heard it, he decided. He would come down and ask. He was supposed to be Sherlock's best friend. He couldn't let him relive painful memories on his own.

The music stopped abruptly and Shinwell stood up to fill another cup of tea.

"He's going to be down soon".

Indeed Sherlock entered the kitchen not five minutes later, nodding at John and accepting the cup of tea from Shinwell.

He sat down at the table. John wanted to ask how he felt, but decided against it. Sherlock had grown more and more uncomfortable whenever he mentioned his drug use; it was almost like he was ashamed to talk about them in front of John.

Just another moment to remind him why he had to get home. Sherlock had never been uncomfortable sharing anything with him. Annoyed because the doctor wouldn't stop nagging him to take better care of himself, angry because they had let a criminal slip through their fingers, even sad when he had explained why he had had to fake his death. But never uncomfortable. Not with John.

Strangely enough, it was Shinwell who spoke first.

"You are going to kill the man who is responsible for Victor's death".

John quickly looked at Sherlock and shook his head to prevent the young man from uttering "Obviously".

Shinwell was right, of course; and John decided that he might as well tell him. He'd been Victor's friend after all, and he would want to know what was going on. Although he couldn't say why he had to; the other man had given him the gun after all, and it must be obvious that –

John shook himself. Now was not the time to let his depression get the better of him. Shinwell had a right to know.

"Yes".

The other man nodded before asking, "What is the plan?"

Sherlock and John stared at him.

Sherlock shot John a look that clearly meant he should explain to Shinwell why it was in his best interest to know nothing whatsoever about the plan, but before the doctor could say anything, Shinwell announced, "You're only two. You'll need help."

"I beg your pardon?" John had already dragged Sherlock into this. He didn't need to put someone else on Moriarty's radar, especially if that someone had done so much good.

"I want to help. This guy – he killed Victor. And you are going to kill him. As far as I am concerned, it's fair."

Shinwell's brows furrowed and John realized that, no matter what, they wouldn't be able to shake him of if they didn't want to hurt him. And Shinwell had been in the army; he could he useful.

He didn't want to make Shinwell a part of all of this, but as he looked down at his hand and noticed it was trembling once again, he admitted to himself that he might not have a choice.

Especially if Sherlock and Shinwell looked so determined,

"It's not safe – " John tried to argue, even though he already knew it was hopeless. Shinwell shook his head.

"Don' try to tell me it's too dangerous. Once you've been to war, nothing is too dangerous."

John found he had to agree.

He told the other man all he had to know – meaning that Moriarty was a dangerous criminal who wouldn't think twice about killing everyone who dared to stand in his way – but Shinwell still wanted to come with them, like John had suspected he would.

Sherlock didn't seem to understand why he should, and John knew why; the young man would never accept that someone came with them just to protect him.

John felt a surge of shame when he realized that should have been his job.

He'd got so caught up in playing Moriarty's game, planning to kill Moriarty, that he hadn't thought much about the fact that he was taking Sherlock with him – had simply accepted it because he was sued to have the consulting detective by his side.

If he had told Sherlock to stay behind, would he have listened? If he had asked him to keep away, to run, would he have understood? Perhaps not, but even if he hadn't understood why, even if he hadn't seen why it was necessary, Sherlock had done almost everything John asked him.

Maybe he could have prevented this; Sherlock once again going against his archenemy, and this time without being prepared.

It didn't matter though, as his Sherlock would undoubtedly have told him. It didn't matter, because John had to kill Moriarty, and he needed back-up if he wanted to succeed.

And Sherlock and Shinwell was all he'd got.

He retired soon after he had accepted Shinwell's offer, he went to bed and tried to get some sleep, although he was already sure his efforts would be futile.

And then Sherlock started to play again.

John didn't know how long he'd already lain awake when he heard the first accords gently drifting through the house; but he once again recognized the melody Sherlock was playing.

The melody he'd used to put John to sleep after his nightmares, not that the consulting detective would ever admit it.

But –

John, listening to the sounds of the violin, became aware that sometimes, Sherlock hesitated, apparently not sure how to go on.

He noticed the small pauses between parts of the piece; he heard how the young man tried to create a lullaby.

Sherlock was composing the music he knew so well while the doctor was listening.

He drifted off to sleep listening to his struggles.

He woke up after nine am, refreshed and as ready to take on the consulting criminal as he would ever be. John quickly went down to the kitchen, where Sherlock was already waiting, and was about to take a cup of tea without saying anything about last night's music –

When he realized that he'd never mentioned any of the consulting detective's late night concertos.

So he gently said, "Last night – the music – it was beautiful".

Sherlock shrugged and turned to pour himself another cup of tea, and John could have sworn he was embarrassed.

"Don't mention it. It's not done yet".

The doctor didn't answer, and they waited for Shinwell to wake up.

Once the other man had found his way to them, John announced, "We are going to look at the meeting place. We won't be long".

He didn't wait for an answer but turned around and left, sure that Sherlock would follow him, as he promptly did.

Once on the street, he let Sherlock guide him to the designated place and surveyed the area.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw there weren't many places a sniper could hide, and only one where he would feel perfectly comfortable in – either Moriarty didn't bring at least three snipers with him yet, or his client had chosen the place – and quickly pointed to the only large building in the vicinity.

"Second floor. Empty flat. The broken window. From there, a sniper could overlook the whole street."

Sherlock frowned.

"So Shinwell takes out the sniper, while we take down Moriarty?"

"That's the plan" John answered. Shinwell had been a soldier; he'd be able to take care of himself.

His gaze swept over the street.

No, there really weren't any other places for snipers to hide – not good ones, anyway – but there were plenty for other thugs to lie in waiting. Considering this was a first meeting between Moriarty and his client, however, John was rather sure that the consulting criminal wouldn't bring too many associates with him.

He almost found himself wishing for Moran. He'd at least know what they were up against.

He'd at least know who he had to fight if he risked his life simply too –

John noticed where his thoughts were going and felt another sting of pain in his leg. Their plan to get rid of Moriarty mostly kept the thoughts at bay, but know and then they would come to the surface.

"John?"

He turned around to face Sherlock.

"It's all fine".

The young man obviously didn't believe him but simply led the way back to Shinwell's house.

John quickly told the other man everything they needed to know, trying not to think about the fact that Sherlock had disappeared into a room as soon as they had arrived and was most likely shooting up.

Instead, he focused on Moriarty and what they had to do. What they would do.

They didn't talk much; the rest of the day passed with many cups of tea, John and Shinwell cleaning their guns, Sherlock playing erratically on his violin, and every single one of them waiting for the evening.

And then, finally, it was time.

John emptied his cup, stood up, looked at his two allies, and said, "Let's go".

**Author's note: So much for anything happening in this chapter. My mind has its own will, it would seem. However, in the next chapter... Oh well. I'm not going to make any promises. **

**I hope you liked it, please review.**


	27. Chapter 27

**Author's note: Time for the confrontation with Moriarty. Who is excited?**

**I don't own anything, please review. **

They didn't talk as they slowly walked to the meeting point. Sherlock had shot up before they left, just enough to make sure he wouldn't suffer any withdrawal symptoms while they were taking down Moriarty. John had already told Shinwell where the sniper would most likely hide, although the other man probably wouldn't have needed directions.

The doctor still wished he could have gone alone, but knew he'd never be able to get close enough to Moriarty.

They arrived at the place at about eight.

Shinwell looked up at the building the sniper was most likely to hide later and nodded.

Unexpectedly, just as he was turning around to go, he thought better of it and went over to Sherlock. He gave his shoulder a squeeze. The young man looked at him, surprised and confused, and Shinwell gave him an encouraging smile.

Without waiting for Sherlock to answer, he shot John a look that made it clear that he expected the doctor to look after the young man, even if he had to leave.

John nodded and smiled. Shinwell smiled back and left without turning around.

Sherlock's eyes followed him.

John turned his head away, telling himself this wasn't the last time he saw the other man.

"Sherlock?" he asked. "How about you go the other way around and watch out for other snipers?"

"And what am I supposed to do if I find them? Shout?" Sherlock asked, rolling his eyes.

John, however, wouldn't allow him his way. He wouldn't allow him in the line of fire. Not again.

"Sherlock, this is my battle." For once, it was. For once, it was John who was planning to fight Moriarty. And he was determined to win. Or at the very least to keep Sherlock safe.

He watched the young man go, hoping desperately that he would indeed keep in the background, but sure that he wouldn't. He'd have to act fast if he wanted to prevent Sherlock meeting Moriarty yet again.

He should never have dragged him in this mess to begin with, but it was too late now.

He sighed and resigned himself to wait, wishing more than ever that they could use mobile phones to communicate.

At least Moriarty had picked a secluded spot; there weren't any other people around and John didn't have to worry about accidentally wounding a passer-by.

The minutes dragged by. The doctor checked for the hundredth time that his gun was still in his pocket and wondered if the sniper had already shown up and if Shinwell had taken care of him. He would simply have to trust that he had.

He looked at his watch again and again, willing it to go faster. The adrenaline cursing through his system and his focus on Moriarty thankfully didn't allow any of the traitorous thoughts to enter his mind or his leg and hand to act up, but he didn't know how long it would stay that way. How long he could be himself. He had to get back to his time, and quickly.

Then, finally ten minutes before the appointed time, the man who was to meet Moriarty appeared. John would have recognized him immediately even in a crowd of poeple, despite never having seen him before; there could be only one reason why he loitered on the street, looking as suspicious as he possibly could.

The doctor knew he was wasting his time by appearing early; Moriarty would show up exactly when he had said he would and not a minute earlier.

True enough, the consulting criminal appeared at exactly nine pm, looking as content as ever, dressed in a Westwood suit. John resisted the temptation of taking the shot immediately and instead decided to slowly move forward. He couldn't risk Moriarty surviving his first attempt.

As he took step after step, Sherlock nowhere in sight, the conversation between Moriarty and his client seemed to go well; the man, while still looking uncertain and scared (obviously he had heard quite a lot about the consulting criminal, then) was gesticulating and explaining his plan. Moriarty was obviously bored, but as polite as he would ever be, and if John could only –

Moriarty took out a gun and shot the man between the eyes.

It happened so fast John didn't understand what he'd just done at first, kneeling in his hiding place, his heart hammering in his chest.

Then Moriarty called out, "I'd be very glad if the doctor would see me now", the last word drawn out.

John swallowed. He should have known that such a simple plan wouldn't work, but he had fooled himself into believing that it could because he had to succeed. Because he couldn't imagine failing.

As he had just done.

His thoughts flew to Shinwell. Was he waiting for the right moment? Was he already dead? He didn't know, and he couldn't risk waiting. If the other man was still alive, there was every chance Moriarty would have him executed if John took too long.

He swallowed, put the gun back in his pocket and slowly walked towards the consulting criminal.

When he saw him Moriarty grinned.

"Hello again! I was hoping you'd entertain me for a bit. But that you'd actually try to kill me... I didn't see that one coming, I have to admit".

He narrowed his eyes and looked John up and down. The doctor managed not to flinch, but only barely.

"There is just something about you – you don't fit".

John wasn't surprised that Moriarty had realized something wasn't right. He'd always known, if he had chosen a different path, the consulting criminal would have been like Sherlock, on the side of the angels.

"Where's your drug-taking but still rather entertaining friend?" he asked and John decided to play dumb. Maybe Sherlock would have the sense to stay hidden.

"Who?"

"Please, don't get boring now. You know who I mean. Tall, thin, looking for his next shot. Your little pet".

John forced himself to stay calm; Moriarty calling Sherlock John's pet was almost too much to bear.

Moriarty sighed and dramatically looked up, but John knew he was having fun.

"Alright. How about that: either he comes out, or I kill you".

Sherlock appeared behind him a second later, and John wished, desperately wished, that he had brought him to a hospital instead of dragging him into a hotel when he'd found him lying in the street. Mycroft would have taken care of any charges, even if the doctors had decided to call the police; he would have been released and never known Moriarty existed. But John had to take care of him, had to have him near him, because it was difficult to remember a time when he hadn't needed him, and this was where they had ended up.

Somehow, everything always led to this, the moment were John feared he might lose Sherlock once and for all.

And it didn't matter that he might find the time machine and return and make sure that this never happened, because in this moment, he was here and Moriarty was here and Moriarty could kill Sherlock whenever he wanted and John was frozen.

He could take the shot, but only if –

"Oh, I almost forgot!" Moriarty suddenly exclaimed and waved.

John didn't know who he waved to at first.

And then a shot burst through the cold stillness of the evening and John knew that Shinwell was dead.

He had tried to help them, had helped so many others, and now he was dead; shot like a dog at Moriarty's command.

And John couldn't kill Moriarty. Not when Sherlock was in the line of fire of the sniper.

He took a deep breath. He had to distract the consulting criminal; maybe Sherlock could hide, maybe Sherlock could run. All didn't have to be lost.

"And now, what do you want?" He sounded calm, controlled; he had to. He couldn't let Moriarty knew how scared he was, but he had the feeling the other man was already aware.

"I want to be amused, of course. Come on, don't you think everyone deserves a little fun?"

"You killed Shinwell".

Both looked at Sherlock. He hadn't said a word until now and hadn't even visibly reacted to the shot; but John knew what he must fell. Shinwell had been one of the few people he'd trusted, one of the few people who had cared for the young homeless addict. And now he was gone.

"Of course I did. He wanted to take out my sniper, and that wasn't very nice now, was it?"

For a second, John feared that Sherlock would do something his best friend would consider stupid; for a second he saw the fire in his eyes. Then the young man asked calmly, "Did you kill Victor yourself or did you have him taken care of?"

Moriarty's eyes gleamed. "Oh no, that was me. I didn't have anything to do, and he was getting annoying".

Sherlock nodded, and John saw his hands twitch. He prayed the young man wouldn't try and take down Moriarty while a sniper rifle was trained on him.

John didn't know what Moriarty would do. If this had been the consulting criminal he'd come to know, perversely enough, he wouldn't have worried so much. Because Moriarty enjoyed his games, and they hadn't played yet. But this Moriarty, he was more impulsive, impatient. He might decide to kill them any time.

John caught Sherlock's gaze and tried to convey that he had to run, to find himself a corner where he would be safe.

Predictably enough, he only got a stubborn gaze in return.

"Come on, now! Stop staring at each other. Can you really overlook all of this?" Moriarty asked, indicating himself.

John forced himself to calm down.

"As much as I don't want to repeat myself, what do you want?"

Moriarty looked at him, and John saw something in his gaze that made him shudder. Something nasty and entirely unpredictable, and he wondered if Sherlock had seen the same thing on the roof of St. Bart's.

"I hate to repeat myself as well, but I will be frank: Everything is just so dull. Even the criminals. I can't remember the last time I saw a really nice murder. But you two – you have potential. The ex-army doctor, down on his luck and freshly homeless, and the druggie who's following him. I am... curious".

And, just like that, John knew. He knew that, if he failed to kill Moriarty, if he didn't put an end to his empire now, that, if he didn't return home, or couldn't return things to how they had been, Sherlock and John would always be on the consulting criminal's radar – if they survived this night, that was.

But there was a chance they would, and if they did, and Moriarty did as well, there was no escape. Sherlock would be forced to play Moriarty's games long before he was ready for it, and John couldn't allow it.

He wasn't a genius. He was a soldier. And he had a mission.

He acted quickly.

He walked over to Sherlock – Moriarty appeared unconcerned, apparently he'd realized John was walking towards his friend and not him – and pushed him into the shadows.

Before anyone could react he pulled out his gun and put a bullet in Moriarty's heart.

He could have shot him in the head, but some part of him, some part who remembered three dead years, wanted him to suffer.

He didn't hear the shot, but he recognized the burning in his shoulder, the same burning he had felt in Afghanistan. He believed he heard someone cry out his name and being dragged into the shadows; he shoved the helping hands away, saw that they were hidden from the sniper and, notwithstanding the pain, he concentrated on Moriarty.

He cherished the moment his eyes went blank.

Then he collapsed.

**Author's note: I know, I killed of Shinwell. And I wounded John. What would fanfiction be without drama?**

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


	28. Chapter 28

**Author's note: So then, time to start working on getting John home, I'd say. But who knows? I know I am evil.**

**I don't own anything, please review. **

Once again, John woke up without knowing where he was; but the beeping sounds of the machines and the smell of disinfectant told him that he was at hospital, a real hospital this time.

It had to be a real hospital, John thought with a stab of pain, Shinwell couldn't take care of him or anyone else anymore.

Then he heard voices.

One of them he immediately recognized as Sherlock's. Relief flooded through him. When he had collapsed, he had prayed that the young man would keep in the shadows and not try to catch Shinwell's killer on his own, tempting as it may be.

"John is hurt and Shinwell is dead".

John heard the strain in Sherlock's voice. He had cared for Shinwell, even though he'd tried not to, and now the other man was dead because of John.

Then the other voice answered, and the doctor realized that Mycroft was in the room.

"My main concern was your safety. I assure you Moriarty's employee has been taken care of. If your friend" the elder Holmes paused, as if he was waiting for Sherlock to contradict him, but his brother, either because he really had considered Shinwell a friend or because he wouldn't give Mycroft the satisfaction of contradicting him when he wanted him to "had waited, he wouldn't have been killed."

Sherlock was silent, and the elder Holmes sighed. "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. Look where it –"

"I chose to come with him, Mycroft. He needed help".

"I am sure you were a great help".

Mycroft's voice was hard. The silence that followed was deafening.

"What I choose to do with my life is none of your business" Sherlock finally said calmly.

Mycroft huffed. "Brother mine, I fail to see how you can consider your life in any way – "

John could feel the tension in the room rising. He forced his eyes open, hoping that him being awake would distract them from the fight that was about to ensue.

Sherlock realized immediately and was by his side in an instant.

"John? How are you feeling?"

He sounded unsure, obviously uncomfortable in having to act like a concerned friend when he had no idea how, and John smiled.

"Not bad, all things considered."

It was true; he certainly felt better than he had after he'd been shot in Afghanistan. His shoulder didn't even hurt much; Mycroft – for John was certain this was a private hospital that didn't exist officially – must have made sure he got the best doctors available.

"A through-and-through, John. You had extraordinary good luck".

John turned his head and saw Mycroft standing by the door. His eyes were hard and the doctor was suddenly rather relieved that Sherlock was in the room. He could understand Mycroft's anger – he was angry at himself for having taken Sherlock with him – but that didn't mean he was eager to see it directed towards him.

"I took the liberty" the elder Holmes continued, "of removing Moriarty's body. His sniper has been taken into custody."

"And Shinwell?"

Mycroft looked slightly annoyed – he probably would have preferred Sherlock to break the news – but answered, "I regret to inform you –"

"I know he is dead. I just don't want him to lie around somewhere in the streets".

Mycroft's eyes narrowed and he shot his brother a quick glance as he replied, "I saw to it that he was properly buried".

John didn't want to think about what "properly buried" meant to Mycroft, but nodded. At least Shinwell's body wasn't waiting for anyone to stumble across it. The elder Holmes must have known or at least suspected what Shinwell had done for Sherlock, otherwise that would undoubtedly have been his fate. Although, perhaps not. Mycroft claimed caring wasn't an advantage and he had still looked after them, saved them from the sniper.

The British Government cleared his throat.

"I will leave you two alone, then. John, as soon as you can be released I am going to take you to the time machine".

"Thank you" John answered honestly, trying to ignore Sherlock's light flinch. Mycroft shot him look that wasn't devoid of pity and left.

They didn't say anything for a while. Neither knew how to begin.

Then John forced himself to say the words.

"I'm sorry about Shinwell".

Sherlock shrugged with forced nonchalance. "He knew it was dangerous. He chose to come with us. It's not your fault".

Only it was. If John hadn't stumbled into their lives, changing everything, dragging them into his vendetta against Moriarty, Shinwell would still be alive. And even if he could return everything to how it had been before, it didn't change a thing because now, in this moment, he knew that he had cost a good man his life. Just like he had cost Sherlock three years of it because the consulting detective wanted to keep him safe.

John wondered if it wouldn't have been better for all concerned if he had never been born.

He recognized the thoughts for what they were and shook his head. The pain meds in his blood had deluded him into thinking that his symptoms hadn't got worse, but he knew that, as soon as he'd try to stand up, he'd need a cane and his hand would shake.

Killing Moriarty hadn't helped. He was still slowly slipping back into his depression, and as he raised his hand, he saw that it was shaking more than ever.

"John?"

The doctor looked up. Sherlock was frowning.

"There is something different about you. It's got worse, hasn't it?"

There were many things John could have said, but he simply too tired.

"Yes" he replied and Sherlock bit his lip.

"You'll have to go back as quickly as you can".

John nodded.

Sherlock looked down at the floor.

"I –" he cleared his throat and quickly cleared his face of all traces of emotions, and John realized he would have to make an effort. He couldn't give up now and allow himself to become the empty shell of a man he'd once been, not if he was so close to getting home.

He sat up despite the pain that shot through his shoulder and Sherlock's astonished protest.

"Sherlock – I have to get home". He would have liked to sound more reassuring, more determined, but he couldn't, not when he was looking at a young man who lived on the streets and who had just lost his only friend, whether he admitted it to himself or not. A young man who didn't think he'd live much longer, who had absolutely no hope, who had been surprised when John had told him about the future.

And He would stay like this for years. If John managed to do what he had to do, if everything returned to normal, this Sherlock would still be here, living on the streets, taking drugs –

He would Shinwell, but nothing else.

John's heart clenched as Sherlock answered, so quietly he almost didn't hear it, "I know".

Then he obviously decided that John shouldn't realize that his leaving was affecting him and he continued, matter-of-factly, "We'll meet again, though. So, really, it doesn't matter".

"Doesn't or shouldn't?" John asked. He knew Sherlock Holmes better than anyone, and he knew how to get him to talk about what was bothering him.

"It makes no difference. If everything goes the way Mycroft say it will – and I don't doubt it" there was a slight bitterness in Sherlock's voice that made John wonder what exactly the British Government had told his younger brother "we won't remember any of this. It will never have happened."

John wanted to say something, but Sherlock shook his head, repeating, "It doesn't matter".

The doctor saw that he wouldn't be able to get the young man to continue the conversation and nodded.

He asked instead, "How long have I been here?"

"A little over ten hours. It was only a through-and-through, but they gave you rather heavy meds – Mycroft was adamant that you should be up again as soon as possible. You might even be released tomorrow".

"The sooner, the better" John said. He couldn't risk growing more depressed by the minute.

Although he couldn't overlook that Sherlock appeared slightly hurt by his haste to get away. He could understand it, although the young man probably couldn't – sentiment simply wasn't logical.

He took another look at Sherlock and noticed something.

"Mycroft let you buy drugs?" He carefully modulated his voice so that there was no trace of worry or resentment in it; he didn't want to make Sherlock angry, not when he was leaving in such a short time.

Sherlock visibly appreciated the effort; he smirked and answered, "He didn't have much of a choice. He knows he can't force me into detox".

"I can imagine."

"I'd like to see him try, though" Sherlock stated, and John laughed even though it hurt his shoulder. He had to remember who this Sherlock would become; had to remember that he would eventually leave all of this, the drugs, the streets, behind him.

After a rather drawn-out discussion, John convinced Sherlock to get something to eat and rest for a while. He himself slept for a few hours and woke up to find Mycroft sitting beside his bed.

"I talked to the doctors" he announced. "You can leave tonight."

"Really?" John asked, surprised, before remembering that this was the British Government he was talking to, and that Mycroft had probably forced them to agree by telling them that their job might not be as secure as they thought.

He wondered if he should something about what had transpired, how he had killed Moriarty and endangered Sherlock's life, not to mention Shinwell's death, but Mcroft obviously didn't want to talk. The British Government stood up and walked to the door.

"I'll send a car at seven pm". He turned around just before he left the room and added, "I hope that you take better care of my brother in the future".

John took it for the warning it was and said nothing.

Sherlock returned soon afterwards and spent the day with him. They didn't talk much; there wasn't anything they could say, really. Both of them thought of Shinwell and that John would soon be gone, and these facts hung in the air between them, making conversation difficult.

The doctor almost sighed with relief when Melas arrived to take them to the "government facility" where the time travel device was. Neither he nor Sherlock commented on John's limp.

It was raining, John could tell that much from the darkened windows. Mycroft was waiting for them there; a wet umbrella in his hand, and the familiarity of the picture was comforting to John.

Sherlock snorted. "Really, Mycroft? You forced one of your employees to get you an umbrella for the five steps from the car and the door? You should just carry it with you".

Mycroft looked at him disapprovingly and nodded at John.

"Dr. Vernet is waiting".

John knew immediately something was wrong when he entered the lab and looked at the machine. The doctor, a small blonde man, looked incredibly nervous.

"What is it?" Mycroft demanded and the man swallowed.

"As you undoubtedly know, Mr. Holmes, our machine isn't working yet. The only reason we can send your associate through is because it worked in the future. But – we can only send him back to the moment he entered the machine in the first time".

John needed a few seconds to understand what that meant. Then he realized. He turned to Sherlock to see if he was right, if this meant indeed what he thought it meant. When he looked in the young man's face, he knew.

John could only be sent back to the exact moment where he had entered the time machine. So, no matter what, he wouldn't be quick enough to prevent him being sent into the past.

He couldn't change what he had done. He couldn't prevent himself from changing the future.

He would have to live with the consequences. The limp, the shaking hand, his depression –

He would have to live with the fact that Sherlock Holmes was neither his best friend nor his flatmate. And he didn't know if he would become the World's only consulting detective or if John had changed too much.

He felt faint but forced himself to remain standing. What was done was done. His life as he had known it was gone. But maybe –

Maybe he could still help Sherlock.

He turned to Mycroft, who was just about to question Doctor Verner and said, "No. Stop it. I'm sure he's done all he can".

The elder Holmes looked at him, surprised, and John shook his head.

"You are aware – "

"Yes" John replied, "Yes, I am aware."

There was nothing waiting for him in his own time anymore, he was sure. He was depressed, he was limping, he was alone.

He looked at Sherlock, and for one moment, just one moment, he wondered what would happen if he stayed. He could look after Sherlock; maybe he could get him of the drugs; maybe he could –

No. It wouldn't be fair.

John looked at this Sherlock, this young Sherlock, who should be allowed to make his own choices, even if they weren't always the best ones. Only two days after the doctor had appeared in his life, he had already risked it to kill someone he didn't know. Simply because John wanted it.

No, this wasn't his Sherlock, and he wasn't the friend this Sherlock needed.

And what about Mrs. Hudson and Greg? He had already changed the future; but if he stayed, there was no hope of the past righting itself, because he would be the one looking after Sherlock, not allowing him to ever meet Mrs. Hudson or try to befriend Greg after all.

What about his twenty-five year old self? Yes, he had never thought that his life would turn out like this. But he had always chosen his own path. And what right did he have to stay here, in this young man's time? No. He belonged to the year 2015.

And finally –

He didn't want to be Sherlock Holmes' fatherly friend. He couldn't be Sherlock Holmes' fatherly friend. He was supposed to be his best friend, the one he trusted, not the one who told him what to do, not the one who shaped him into the person he should be.

If he stayed, he might cause even more damage than he already had.

He looked at Sherlock and shook his head.

"I screwed everything up. I'm sorry".

"No you didn't" Sherlock argued, and John could see that he wanted to ask him to stay but knew it to be too dangerous, for the timeline, for himself, for the doctor, for everything.

"Goodbye" he gently said, looking once more upon the man who should have become his best friend.

Sherlock swallowed, then answered, "2015, you said. We will see each other then".

John smiled and turned to Mycroft once more. In one quick motion, he grabbed his arm and dragged him down until he could whisper in his ear, "Look after him".

Before Mycroft could answer, he had let go and walked up to Sherlock, throwing his arms around him.

They had only hugged once before, after the consulting detective had come back from the dead. Which perhaps meant that now, they had never hugged at all.

Sherlock froze, but eventually he responded. John pulled back shortly after and smiled.

"Sherlock, just – take care of yourself, alright?"

Sherlock nodded, but didn't say anything, and John was grateful for it. This was difficult enough as it was.

He looked at Doctor Verner.

"What do I have to do?"

As it turned out, he only had to step into the large opening in the machine, which apparently worked as some kind of portal. He did so without looking back. He didn't want to see Sherlock's face and be reminded of what he was leaving behind and what would never be.

John didn't know what he had been expecting; maybe some kind of electric shock, a bright light –

Instead, everything turned black the moment Doctor Verner started the machine, and he fainted.

He tried not to cry as he woke up in the flat he'd lived in after he'd been invalided home and saw from the date on his laptop that he was back in 2015.

He failed.

**Author's note: What do you mean, another cliffhanger? There are cliffhangers in this story? I didn't notice.**

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


	29. Chapter 29

**Author's note: This chapter is probably going to be quite sad because... well, because. What would a fanfic be without some angst?**

**I don't own anything, please review. **

It took him a long time to pick himself up from the floor, but his leg hurt and he desperately had to catch his breath.

His old cane leaned against the bed. He picked it up and felt that it was worn smooth from years of use.

A large part of him simply wanted to collapse on the bed and never move again – the depression stronger than ever – but he dragged himself to his laptop. He had to find out what had happened to Sherlock.

And sooner rather than later.

Because, as he typed in the address of Sherlock's homepage and his blog, he noticed something.

Normally, he would have been able to type both of them in seconds without thinking about it; now he found them difficult to remember.

And not only that.

As he thought about it further, he realized that details were slipping away from him. The name of the Lady in Pink; whether he'd first seen the foot or the head in their fridge; when Sherlock had shot the smiley face on the wall.

It was all getting jumbled together, the memories he had cherished so much, and he wondered if this was his punishment for changing everything. To feel his old life, his old self, slowly slipping away, draining out of him, until that was left was –

What, exactly? That was a good question. Even as he thought about it, other memories, memories he'd never had before and certainly didn't want now, started to appear before his mind's eye.

_His therapy after being invalided home, countless hours wasted talking to Ella, until she finally, like everyone else seemed to have done, gave up on him._

_Harry calling him and dropping by, sober but worried. "It's been two months since we have talked, John. Please, I know I haven't been the best sister, but – get a grip on yourself. You can't let yourself go like that. You should go out, make some friends – " "You mean like a whiskey bottle?" he answered, more sharply than he should have probably, but he didn't care. She left at that, but didn't stop nagging him to get a life back together that was simply too broken to even attempt such a feat._

_Meeting Mike Stamford in the park, complaining that he wouldn't be able to afford to live in his awful little flat much longer, and good-hearted Mike somehow succeeding in talking his landlord into reducing his rent by explaining that he was suffering from PTSD and should not be forced to leave the environment he was used to._

_Evenings spent staring at the wall, fighting against sleep because slept meant returning to Afghanistan and being reminded what he had left behind, what he could have done, if it hadn't been for a bullet. _

_Mike trying to coax him out of his shell with frequent coffee and dinner invitations because he couldn't bear to see his old friend like that, the old friend who had left for the war with such high hopes of helping people and making the World a better place._

John pinched the bridge of his nose with his right hand and sighed. He had to concentrate. He couldn't let the depression get to him, not before he knew what had become of Sherlock and his other friends, not before he knew if he had ruined their lives as well as his own.

Sherlock's homepage didn't exist.

John almost started to cry again.

On the other hand, he had already known that he didn't live with Sherlock anymore, so maybe the consulting detective was... Maybe he wasn't the consulting detective to begin with. Maybe he had found another job that satisfied him.

John's blog only told him how empty his life was.

_February 13__th__.  
Nothing happens to me_

_March 19__th__.  
Nothings happens to me._

_April 17__th__  
I hope you appreciate this, Ella, because, if you haven't noticed, nothing happens to me._

It definitely told John just how alone and broken he was. But it wasn't only the blog.

He was feeling empty too. He had given up a long time ago, according to his new memories; he had lost all hope to ever achieve anything in his life.

Idly, he wondered why he hadn't shot himself yet, then realized what he had just shot and shook himself.

He mustn't think like that. He had to think of Sherlock first. He had to remember, he couldn't let it all slip away before he knew what had happened to him, before he knew if Mycroft had looked after him, if Sherlock had taken care of himself.

He typed his name in Google as he had done (_no, he hadn't; but as he remembered doing, and that was what he had to focus on_) after he'd met Sherlock Holmes all these years ago.

The first thing that came up was an article by Kitty Riley and John wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all until he realized she wasn't proclaiming Sherlock a fraud.

Instead she had done an _interview _with him.

With "Sherlock Holmes, the acknowledged forensic expert" who had published several books on the subject, held a PhD in chemistry and apparently was consulted by the police on a regular basis.

John smiled. The motion felt foreign to his face. Sherlock had done well. He wasn't so vain to think that it had been their meeting that had prompted Sherlock to give up the drugs and go back to university; most likely Mycroft had had something to do with it, they were still brothers, after all; but it was good to know that Sherlock was an acknowledged expert and, based on the answers he had given Kitty Riley, able to hold a polite conversation if it was required of him.

John quickly read through the interview, but there wasn't much to catch his attention; Sherlock mostly talked about his new book and about a test he'd invented.

Then, his eyes landed on the second-to-last paragraph.

_KR: Did you always want to become a scientist?_

**SH: Initially, I planned on becoming a pirate (smirks). In fact, I only realized what I wanted to do at twenty-five. Before, I'd already studied chemistry for a semester, but dropped out again. Then I had some sort of revelation, if you will, and I knew what I was meant to be (laughs).**

While John was rather certain that Sherlock was being more sarcastic than polite and that Kitty Riley simply hadn't noticed, it felt good that he had made a difference. He certainly hadn't had the "revelation" before John had stumbled around in the past and changed anything. At least he had that.

He quickly typed in Greg's name and found that he was still a DI and, to his great relief, still working with Sherlock now and then. Although as he studied one picture of them at a crime scene, he couldn't help but notice that their body language was... off. They certainly weren't comfortable in each other's presence. It looked wrong.

Sadly enough, his search for Mrs. Hudson showed no results, and he needed a moment to remember why this worried him.

Right. Her husband. Her abusive husband, if the few times she'd had a few glasses of wine too many and given him a few hints that her marriage had been far from ideal were anything to go by. He should have been executed in America; and there certainly should have been some news coverage of it, he had been a British citizen after all.

He resigned himself to the fact that he wouldn't be able to find out everything through Google and somehow managed to get to his feet. He dragged himself to the bathroom for a shower before leaving.

Only to stop and stare at his reflection in the mirror.

He was thinner than he remembered, and there were dark circles under his eyes. He hadn't shaved, and he was almost as pale as Sherlock.

He looked like a ghost.

John swallowed and turned away before taking a quick shower and putting on clothes he didn't remember buying, but assumed was all he could afford in this new reality. They were cheap and ugly, and not nearly as comfortable as the jumpers he'd almost always worn while running around London with his best friend.

He limped out of the flat and slowly made his way to Baker Street; he figured he might as well check on Mrs. Hudson first since he had no idea where Sherlock lived. He didn't have enough money for a cab and he didn't feel like taking the tube (to be honest, he didn't feel like doing anything, but he had to, he had to remember who he was) so he walked. Slowly, but he walked.

Finally he arrived at the front door that would have been theirs, had things turned out differently, and just stood there, unsure how to proceed.

The strange mixture of memories confused him, but he was sure that he didn't know Mrs. Hudson in this life. And he had no idea what had happened to her husband. He couldn't just knock and start asking questions; he didn't want her to think that he was insane.

"Are you alright, dear?"

He turned around to find Mrs. Hudson standing before him, carrying groceries.

Just seeing her helped, John realized. He instantly became calmer. He had to tread carefully; he didn't want to scare her.

He smiled. "No, I was just trying to... train my leg". Her eyes travelled to his cane, and she gave him a pitying look.

"I know how tiresome it can be. I've got a hip." She looked at her own front door, and John tried to make out what she was thinking, but failed. Relief crossed her face and she asked, "Do you want to come in for tea?"

John nodded and they entered the house.

As soon as he entered Mrs. Hudson's flat he knew that Mr. Hudson was still alive.

Their landlady would never have allowed the flat to become such a mess, not unless she either spent as much time away as possible or didn't want to upset her husband.

Beer bottles were lying on the living room table, and the carpet had certainly seen better days. And she hadn't dusted for weeks.

She gave him another weak smile. "Sorry for the mess – "

He realized what she was waiting for and ignored the way his stomach clenched.

"John" he supplied, "John Watson".

She nodded. "I'm Mrs. Hudson. Like I said, please don't pay attention to the state of the place... My husband isn't exactly fond of cleaning".

John said nothing because at this moment, as she hoisted the bags full of groceries from one hand to another, her sleeve had ridden up a little bit and he had seen the bruises.

He felt sick but managed not to show it.

Mrs. Hudson made him tea and happily prattled on about the news of the day while John sat in her kitchen and wondered, now more than ever, if he had done the right thing when he had helped Sherlock up in that alley.

He could have lived an empty life if it was the price for Sherlock's career; but Mrs. Hudson still living with her husband...

After a while, she abruptly stopped talking and looked John in the eyes.

"Where are you going after you leave?"

He didn't ask how she knew he'd been thinking about going to Scotland Yard, or rather, how she had known he would go someplace else after leaving her flat. In a way, he didn't want to leave her; but there was nothing he could do. He could barely stand, he was in no condition to fight off an abusive husband. If he found a friend, though...

"Scotland Yard" he admitted, and she gave him a twenty pound note, shaking her head when he tried to protest.

"You look like you need it" she simply said, and John knew there was no arguing with her, so he thanked her for the money and the tea and left.

Just as his cab pulled away from Baker Street, he turned around and saw a tall, angry-looking man enter the house.

He squeezed his eyes shut and told himself that he could do nothing.

He hated himself for it.

**Author's note: Welcome to a whole new AU my brain decided this story should become. Enjoy your stay and getting your heart ripped out of your chest.**

**I'm trying to show that John is fighting against his depression and therefore unable to help anyone, least of all himself.**

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


	30. Chapter 30

**Author's note: Let's see – there has to be some torture I haven't inflicted on John yet, right? I didn't think this would get so angsty. **

**Maybe I should just put "I have no idea where this is going, so bear with me" in all my story descriptions. **

**Also, big thanks to all who follow, favourite or review this story. To know that someone cares about my work enough to read it every day is more than I could ever have imagined. **

**I don't own anything. **

As he drove along the very familiar and yet not-familiar-at-all route to Scotland Yard, John wondered again if he was doing the right thing. What good would it do if he found Sherlock? He probably didn't even remember him – he had been high, and it had been years ago.

And, as he had just learned with Mrs. Hudson, there was nothing he could do to make things better. He could place an anonymous call to the police, but he knew Mrs. Hudson, and her husband had been abusing her for years before he was arrested, so she probably wouldn't even let the policemen in her house. And if her husband was there, she would have to pay for it later.

If John had still been himself, he would simply have thrown Mr. Hudson out of the house. But he was exhausted, in pain and couldn't even stand without his leg shaking underneath him. He needed help.

He shook himself. Naturally he had to find Sherlock, if only to help Mrs. Hudson. He was sure Sherlock could persuade his brother to help her. Once he had reminded him –

If there was anything to remind Sherlock of. John may have just imagined everything, maybe he had never met the consulting detective (no, not "maybe", he had never met the consulting detective that Sherlock would have become), but maybe he had imagined the time travel too, who knew, maybe he –

He was losing his mind. John clenched his hands into fists, his fingernails pressing into his palms. He concentrated on the pain because it was real and cleared his head and because he couldn't allow himself to give up hope, or what little was left of it, now.

The cab driver was shooting him suspicious looks, and John couldn't blame him. He probably looked like he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Which he was.

His pain-free leg was bouncing up and down. John bit his lip. If he had indeed travelled back in time – no, no, since he had travelled back in time, there was a chance Greg would recognize him.

Remembering how well their investigation had turned out, he didn't know if he would be welcome, however. He doubted the DI counted their meeting amongst his happier memories.

He would know how to contact Sherlock, at least. If the consulting – if the scientist worked with the police now and then, they had to know how to reach him.

John cursed. He was an idiot. The thought of simply calling Sherlock had never even occurred to him.

He took out his phone and typed in the number he remembered so well, only to find that it didn't work. Of course. He couldn't catch a break for once in this reality.

He shoved the phone back in his pocket with another curse.

When they finally arrived at the Yard, he wanted to simply throw the money at the cabbie and leave, but then he remembered who he'd used to be and gave him a generous tip. At least someone might end up happy today.

John entered the Yard, immediately drawing attention to himself; a young man he didn't recognize (then again, that wasn't surprising; he only really knew the policeman who called Sherlock in) came up to him and asked if he needed help.

John did his best to give him a polite smile, but judged from the man's face that he didn't quite succeed.

"I was wondering if I could speak to DI Lestrade".

He hoped that the DI's personality hadn't changed. Greg had always been open and polite, and none of the Sergeants or Constables had ever thought twice of going to him immediately when something came up.

Even if "something" meant a strange, haggard man asking to speak to a DI.

He led John to Greg's office, and the doctor was absurdly thankful that it was still where he remembered.

He knocked and the DI's voice politely called for them to enter.

"What is it, Hobson?" he asked as soon as the young Constable opened the door, and he answered, "There's someone who'd like to talk to you, sir".

Greg's eyes fell on John. He stood up, his mouth falling open, and his breath hitched.

"Sir?"

The Di forced himself to look away from John and nodded at the PC. "It's alright, Hobson. Leave us alone".

Hobson nodded and left, although he gave John a worried look.

Once the door closed behind him, Greg let himself fall back in his chair.

He didn't even bother to pretend that he hadn't recognized John immediately, and the doctor felt relief flood through him.

"It's you".

John gave him a weak smile.

"Yes. It's me".

"But you – " He shook his head. "Good God, when Doctor Holmes first came to work with me, and I asked what had happened to you, and he was just busy looking over the evidence so he said the first thing that came to his mind, which was "He's gone back to his own time", I thought he was still doing drugs".

John flinched when he heard Greg refer to Sherlock as "Doctor Holmes". He had known, one look at the picture of them at the crime scene had been enough to know, that they weren't as close as they would have been. But hearing the proof... It was almost too much.

Especially since, not only was he responsible for Sherlock and Greg meeting at the wrong time, but it was indirectly his fault that they hadn't become friends later as well. Sherlock, clean and successful, wouldn't have taken anyone insinuating that he was still on drugs very well.

A memory forced himself into the foreground of his mind, unbidden and painful.

_I am clean._

Naturally, it had only been logical for Greg to assume that Sherlock was still using. PhD or not, he had met him as a homeless drug addict and not seen him overcome his addiction as he would have done, had things been different.

John had ruined everything.

He swallowed and said, "I assure you he was right".

Greg shook his head and brought a hand up to rub his face. John saw his wedding ring gleaming on his finger and wondered if his wife was cheating on him here too or if the doctor had at least changed one thing for the better apart from Sherlock's career. "If I didn't – I can't believe it. I mean, obviously I have to. You haven't aged at all". He frowned. "You don't look good, though".

"I don't feel so good, either" John answered honestly.

The DI indicated a chair. "Sit down".

Once he had, the Di brought him a glass of water. John sipped it gratefully.

"Well" Greg said after he had watched John in silence for a few moments, "this is a surprise".

John snorted, and the DI cracked a smile. Then he grew serious again and sighed.

"This means I have to apologize... He's never going to let me live this down".

"How is he?" The question had been there, burning on John's tongue, begging to be asked, since he had entered the office, but until now he had been able to ignore it.

Greg tilted his head top the sight and furrowed his brows. "Don't get me wrong, but shouldn't you know? From what I understood – before I interrupted him and told him he was high – you are best friends, aren't you? I mean, in the future, so now – bloody hell, that's confusing".

"You have no idea" John sighed before continuing, very quietly, "We used to – we should have been. But we aren't. I – I changed the future when I got sent into the past. I should have been living with him. We should have been working together. I – " he trailed off, and looked down at the floor, only raising his eyes when Greg cleared his throat.

"So you – " he broke off. Then he tried to smile. "I gave you a hard time. Back then. When I was still a DS."

"I would have done the same" John replied honestly, "and really, it could have been a lot worse. You didn't arrest me".

Greg chuckled. "I suppose you are right there".

He grew serious again, his eyes boring into John's.

"You know, I never forgot the way you looked at me when you saw me at the crime scene. I wondered about it because it looked like you recognized me when we had never met before... You weren't just friends with Doctor Holmes, were you?"

John could only shake his head. Greg took a deep breath. "Alright, so we knew each other too." A thought occurred to him and his eyes widened.

"Am I – different?"

John shook his head again. He didn't have the heart to tell him about his divorce. It hadn't happened anyway. And he certainly wouldn't put any ideas in his head when he didn't know if his wife was faithful to him or not.

"And Sherlock?"

John had been hoping, against all reason, that he wouldn't have to explain what the consulting detective had been. That the town had lost a hero because of him.

"He helped out the police, but not as a scientist. He didn't just look at the evidence. He solved them."

Greg nodded. "That's why you dragged him to the crime scene all these years ago?"

John nodded. "All I did, though" he said bitterly "was ruining everything".

The other man shook his head. "I wouldn't say that. Sherlock is a scientist, and a very brilliant one at that. We aren't close, but... well, okay he gets on my nerves. But I respect him". His eyes softened. "In fact I think... He told me once he went into rehab shortly after we had met, so... I think he quit the drugs because he had met you".

John didn't say anything about Mrs. Hudson, or about Sherlock's and Greg's friendship.

He was a coward.

Unexpectedly the DI stood up.

"Well then, let's go check on your best friend, shall we?"

He walked out of the office as if that made everything clear, and John barely managed to catch up and cling to his arm.

"Greg" he noticed that he'd used the DI's first name, but didn't care – this was how it had been supposed to be "not that I disagree but – why?"

Greg shrugged his shoulders.

"Like I said: I was stupid. I was young, I'd been freshly promoted, but I know now, no, I even knew then that you were right. I felt in my bones that Moriarty had killed Victor Trevor, and when he disappeared – it was clear".

The pause he made was just long enough to tell John that he had suspected him for a while.

It didn't matter, he decided. If he had been in the DI's shoes, he would have suspected the strange doctor who suddenly turned up and seemed to know everything about the supposed killer too.

"But – "

"Please, John. I just want to help. This, it feels – it feels real. And, somehow, even though Sherlock and I don't see eye-to-eye... I can't help but think that we could be friends."

There was a wistful tone in Greg's voice. John didn't answer.

Maybe he couldn't undo what he'd done.

But he could try to build something new.

**Author's note: I made it clear why John didn't call the police because of Mr. Hudson because a reviewer pointed it out and I realized I had once again not explained something that was clear to me. My brain tends to do that. **

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


	31. Chapter 31

**Author's note: I'm so happy people are following this story and its twists and turns and... whatever I should call this plot. Thank you so much. It makes my day to read reviews or get new followers. **

**I don't own anything.**

„The annoying sod turns his phone off when he's in a lab to conduct an experiment; apparently the ringing could cause „disruptions in the process"" Greg explained as they left the office. "But I think I know who we could ask where he is". He smirked. "She asks him what he's doing and where he's going every time she sees him. She's pretty much memorized his whole schedule".

John understood. Molly. At least some things hadn't changed.

Or so he thought because Greg stopped in front of a desk not far away from his office.

"Donavan".

John blinked, confused, as the DS raised her head and stood up. "Sir?"

Her eyes flew over to John for a moment, but the DI didn't introduce him, intent to locate the scientist as soon as possible.

"We're trying to find Sherlock. You don't happen to know where he is?"

John could only stare as a blush spread over Donavan's cheeks. Just when he had thought he understood this reality...

"I know he's conducting an experiment in the North of town, in the Mandrake lab, sir".

"Thank you" Greg replied and they quickly left the Yard. "I know where the lab is" Greg explained, "I picked Sherlock up there once. It won't take long to get there".

That was something, at least. John's leg was already shaking badly, even though the glass of water and the chance to sit down in Greg's office had done him good.

Once they were seated in the DI's car, he shot John a worried look. "You alright, mate? You look like you just saw a ghost".

"Less of a ghost. More..." John shook his head. "Things are just different".

Greg didn't pry and John wondered what his Sherlock would have said if he'd told him about Donavan's crush on him in another reality.

It didn't matter though, because these days had never existed, and John couldn't get back.

"John?"

He looked up to find Greg looking at him with pity in his eyes.

He smiled. "I'm fine".

The DI raised an eyebrow and John shook his head.

"Please, Greg. I brought this on myself, really. There is nothing you can say to make it better". He knew he sounded bitter. There was no point in pretending he wasn't devastated.

Greg swallowed and concentrated on the road for a moment before saying, "At least you have me. And Sherlock".

John didn't say that he didn't have them, not really, because their friendship had been something extraordinary, special, unable to recreate.

It had been something John hadn't even known he needed until Mike had introduced him to the consulting detective.

He nodded and looked out the window. Greg understood that he didn't want to talk anymore and was silent.

They arrived at the lab shortly afterwards.

The DI showed his badge to the receptionist and explained that they were here to see Doctor Holmes; the young woman smiled, her eyes lingering on John, obviously wondering what he was doing here with the DI.

John was getting used to the looks and it worried him.

Somehow, he was coming to accept this reality, even if it was the last thing he wanted.

He slowed down even more as they neared the lab, and not because of his leg.

To be honest –

He was starting to have second thoughts.

He wanted to see Sherlock again, he needed to see him again.

But what right did he have to mess up his life, now that he was successful and apparently quite happy? What right did someone who hadn't been able to get his life back together after he had been invalided home to except that an acknowledged scientist would welcome him with open arms?

None. None at all.

"I'm sure he'll be happy to see you" Greg suddenly announced and John frowned. Were his thoughts that easy to read?

"You think so?" he asked, and Greg smiled.

"Trust me. He almost bit my head off when I dared to imply that you being from the future was a drug-induced fantasy. He'll want to see you".

The words did little to reassure John, but they strengthened his resolve just enough for him to walk faster.

Greg cleared his throat when they were in front of the door.

"Do you want to go in alone?"

John felt his heart hammering in his chest. On the one hand, he felt this would be easier if Greg was with him.

But this was Sherlock. He shouldn't be scared of talking to his best friend alone.

So he nodded and Greg promised he would wait in front of the door. He trailed off in the middle of the sentence, and John realized he had been about to say "in case something goes wrong".

He swallowed, took a deep breath and walked in before he could let his doubts get the better of him.

Sherlock was busy looking through a microscope and, just like the consulting detective John remembered, lost in his own World while conducting his experiments. This gave the doctor enough time to study him.

He wasn't as thin as John's flatmate, nor so pale, which probably had to do with him not ignoring the demands of his body for food and rest; he was wearing a lab coat, and John had to admit it was a strange sight. His hair was cut shorter.

All in all, he looked healthier, but also more in control, less intense than John's best friend.

John bit his lip, wondering if he should walk up to him or make a noise, when Sherlock felt the presence in the lab and raised his head.

For a few seconds, the two stared at each other.

Sherlock's face didn't assume the shocked expression Greg's had, but the doctor could see that he was surprised. The scientist's eyes narrowed and it felt oddly soothing to watch Sherlock deducing him once again.

"Hello" John finally said as casually as he could.

Sherlock walked over to him, still studying him.

"John?" he finally asked, and the doctor smiled.

"Don't worry, I am real".

Sherlock tilted his head, and John realized what he had meant.

"I just come back" he added, strange as it sounded. He hadn't thought about the fact that he had been living in the city all this time and that therefore Sherlock would easily have been able to find him. True, he didn't have any memories of them meeting, but –

"I wanted to contact you" Sherlock blurted out. "But if I had done so and you hadn't recognized me because you hadn't yet travelled back in time... It could have caused too many paradoxes".

"You don't have to tell me that" John answered tiredly. Just thinking about it gave him a headache.

"I figured you would come when the time was ready" Sherlock continued as if John hadn't said anything, "but I was – I often thought about it. And I..." he trailed off, once again looking the doctor over, and John wondered how much pain it caused his friend to see him like this.

Then again, they had only met once, and that had been years ago, at least from Sherlock's perspective. It might be that John's state didn't give him any pain at all.

The doctor was ashamed that the thought wasn't a pleasant one. He should have hoped that Sherlock didn't care, now that he had this life, instead of wishing that he was concerned about a useless ex-army doctor who hadn't done anything since he had returned from the war.

"Do you want to sit down?" Sherlock asked unexpectedly and John tried to hide that he almost couldn't stand the pity in the other man's voice.

His leg was hurting him though, so he nodded and limped over to a chair.

Sherlock sat down opposite him.

Neither spoke.

John felt the seconds pass, a thousand questions flittering through his mind. Now that he had found Sherlock, he didn't know what to say.

Finally he broke the silence with, "So, how have you been?" He winced at asking Sherlock questions one would expect from a passing acquaintance, not from a –

But that was what he was. A passing acquaintance. Someone who had spent a few days with this man twenty years ago.

"I mean" he quickly continued, "I'm sure you already know everything about me."

This brought a half-smile to Sherlock's face at least.

"But what about you? What did you do after I left? I know that you and Greg – "

"Ah yes, Lestrade. He brought you here?"

John nodded.

"At least he's been useful once, then".

John automatically opened his mouth to protest, but Sherlock waved a hand in the air.

"I know, I know. He's not a bad police officer. He just isn't very glad to have a former drug addict working on his cases. And I don't think he has ever really forgiven us for telling him about Moriarty only to have his suspect disappear" He smirked.

To hear Sherlock refer to them as "us" made John feel better despite everything, and he asked, "But how did you – " he broke off because he wasn't sure how to phrase his question why Sherlock had gone back to university.

"I decided after you were gone that the future you told me about, even though it was apparently changed irrevocably, sounded far better than the present I found myself in. I therefore chose to become what you had told me I would. Now, if I was to be a consulting detective, the logical step was to finish my studies in chemistry so I could deal with the evidence efficiently. Of course I had to get clean too". He paused, a faraway look in his eyes, obviously remembering his detox. John would have liked to comfort him but wasn't sure he would welcome it.

"Mycroft let me live in his house". There was a hint of resentment in his voice, but not much.

John looked at him and the scientist shrugged. "Loathe as I was to admit it, I needed help. Meeting you proved it. I was more sober during your... visit than I had been for over a year".

Then he added, "Mycroft is still annoying, though".

John smiled. Some things hadn't changed, at least.

"Once I had built up a reputation, it wasn't difficult to become a consultant. They asked me, in fact. There was an absolutely fascinating case, a triple murder, and the blood had been mixes to a point where it was difficult to establish who it belonged too. I had published several articles about identifying DNA under difficult circumstances, so Lestrade contacted me. He's been working with me ever since".

It was logical, John thought, that Sherlock had decided to go back to university. The doctor had never explained that he hadn't finished his studies and that the beginning of his career had consisted of breaking into a crime scene he'd stumbled across.

Naturally Sherlock had chosen to prepared himself.

The thought that he had decided on becoming a consultant because of John warmed the doctor's heart. Yes, he was miserable, depressed and limping, but he considered it a fair price to pay.

Sherlock looked at his watch and suddenly stood up.

"I almost forgot – Mycroft's forcing me to have lunch with him".

John doubted the elder Holmes could really force Sherlock into doing anything. Sherlock simply didn't want to admit that he liked seeing his brother.

He bit back a smile.

Sherlock looked at him, unsure, and John swallowed, ready to explain that it didn't matter, that he would simply go back to his flat and that they could meet up later –

"Do you want to accompany me?"

**Author's note: I have no idea how much longer this is going to be. You have been warned.**

**Donavan's crush on Sherlock... happened. Maybe it's an expression of my own crush. **

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


	32. Chapter 32

**Author's note: Thank you for the wonderful reviews and sticking with this story. I can't believe I have one hundred reviews!  
**

**I don't own anything. **

John followed Sherlock just like he had always done – would have done, if things had gone differently – and only remembered Greg when the scientist opened the door.

The Di was still waiting in the corridor.

"D – " he looked at John and quickly corrected himself, "Sherlock" and the doctor wondered if he really looked that bad.

Sherlock nodded but said nothing, instead turning to John and shooting him a questioning glance.

John said, "It's fine, it's all fine" because it was, or as close to fine as this World could get, and smiled.

Greg smiled back and pressed his business card into John's hand.

"Just call me if you need anything, alright?"

Before John could say anything, the DI had turned and left, and Sherlock shook his head.

"I might have to be more polite to him in the future."

"You said he was good. Why weren't you before?"

"He said I was lying" Sherlock replied simply. He didn't elaborate, and John realized he was thinking of the time when the DI had accused him of being high because he'd told him the truth about the doctor.

He didn't reply because he didn't know what to say, just like he didn't know how to react when Sherlock slowed his steps so he could keep up, or by the looks everyone, including his – his former best friend was giving him, like he could break down any minute.

As soon as they had left the lab – Sherlock wishing the receptionist Goodbye, and asking her how her family was, which confused John almost as much as Donavan's crush on Sherlock had – the scientist caught a cab, and John hid a smile.

Some things would never change.

Unsurprisingly, they went to the Diogenes Club.

They didn't talk during the cab ride. John observed Sherlock from the corner of his eye.

Sherlock, who had a career and a life that didn't include John, who wasn't constantly on his guard; on the contrary, he seemed as relaxed as one could be when a time traveller one had met years ago had suddenly limped into one's place of work. And he – they were going to have lunch with Mycroft.

John would never have deemed it possible in the life he had known, but apparently the Holmes brothers were on speaking terms. It made sense, though. If Sherlock had lived with Mycroft while he had detoxed and during his studies – if Mycroft had been his one confidante and friend – they would naturally have grown closer again.

That wasn't to say that his Sherlock hadn't cared for Mycroft. But he had never admitted it, and he certainly wouldn't have allowed anyone to notice.

Somehow, John felt relieved. Sherlock hadn't been alone after he had left. And yet – he felt – somewhat –

He really wished he didn't, but in a way, he felt betrayed.

He needed Sherlock, and Sherlock didn't need him, not in this reality.

He had once – twenty years ago – but now...

John bit his lip and looked out of the window.

When they arrived at the Diogenes Club, Sherlock paid the driver and started explaining, "There are certain rules – "

"I know" John interrupted, telling himself it was ridiculous to be offended, "No talking anywhere but the visitor's room and the restaurant."

For a moment, he feared Sherlock would ask him how he knew; then the other man nodded and turned around to knock on the door.

The porter John remembered – he couldn't help thinking that it was good to know he hadn't changed everything – opened the door and immediately ushered them in, bowing to Sherlock. He obviously knew him quite well.

He left them in the visitor's room and went to fetch Mycroft.

Sherlock looked at John.

"I assume – "

"Yes" he answered. "I've been here before." After a moment's silence, he added, "I mean I would – "

"I understand" Sherlock said quietly.

The door opened and Mycroft walked in, looking just like John remembered him; he even carried his umbrella.

He didn't show any surprise when he saw John, but that was only to be expected. Mycroft wasn't the young man the doctor had met a few – twenty years ago, he could of course hide his emotions even better than he had then.

"John" he greeted him. "I see you found my brother".

Naturally he didn't ask Sherlock whether he'd sought John out despite the risks; he simply deduced that he hadn't.

"It's good to see you" Mycroft said, and John could see that he meant it. Apparently the last twenty years had removed all the anger he'd felt towards the doctor when he had dragged his little brother into the fight against Moriarty; and John supposed he might even feel a little thankful, since by Sherlock's own confession, it had been John who'd prompted him into quitting cocaine.

He smiled and shook his head, but knew as he did that the British Government was deducing him just like Sherlock had done, and what his deductions would be.

"We didn't know when to expect you" Mycroft said, "since you never told us from which exact date you came. Of course we knew that you came from the year 2015 but nothing else. I assure you Sherlock has been most impatient to see you again."

"Mycroft" Sherlock warned, but not without fondness in his voice, and if John hadn't known any better, he would have sworn there was a twinkle of mischief in the eyes of the British Government.

"You are here now, at any rate, so I suggest we eat".

Watching Sherlock eat, actually eat, and not just picking on his plate or devouring his food without swallowing because he hadn't eaten for several days might be the weirdest thing he had yet seen in this reality, John decided ten minutes into the lunch.

And he didn't think he had ever seen Mycroft eat before either.

It was during this lunch John became painfully aware that they had nothing to talk about. He didn't know anything about Sherlock's experiments, or what cases he was currently working on. He didn't even know if Sherlock still played the violin when he needed to think, if he still took two sugars in his coffee, if he dropped the fake polite smile he used on annoying people as soon as he turned around...

John put down the knife, having lost his appetite.

Sherlock, who had just been busy explaining to Mycroft that one of the firms that employed him to run tests on new medicine had told him that he should approve their new product as soon as possible and that he had simply hung up because no one would tell him what to do, especially not an idiotic executive, looked up.

John was taken aback by how easy it was to read him.

He, of course, had been able to read Sherlock very well, but only after he'd got to know him, after they had started living together, and then he had only known what the consulting detective was thinking or feeling by a small movement of his eyebrows, a frown, but never like this. Now everyone could see that Sherlock was worried.

"I'm fine" he forced himself to say, "Just – this is all new for me, you know".

Sherlock nodded before asking, "Do you still remember?"

John nodded, because even though the details continued to evade him and would probably soon fade altogether (his throat constricted as he thought about it) he still remembered what could have been, and he didn't know if that was good or bad.

On the one hand, if he didn't remember, it wouldn't hurt. But he would have Sherlock, and perhaps they could find their way back to the friendship they had shared.

On the other hand –

_Afghanistan or Iraq?_

_This is John Watson, my friend._

_The thing that you... that you offered to do, that was... good._

_I take the precaution of a long coat and a short friend._

_I don't have friends. I've just got one. _

_Goodbye, John._

_If I had found a way to return sooner, I would have._

_Will you move back in?_

No. He couldn't live without these memories because, even if nothing he remembered had ever happened, it had made him the man he was today.

And what he remembered from his life, the life he had truly led as opposed to the one he wished he had –

He preferred the John Watson who had been Sherlock Holmes' best friend and blogger.

"You should consider writing it down, John" Mycroft interrupted his thoughts. "It might help us find out who did this to you".

Sherlock shot his brother a glare because he had apparently said it before he could, but it was half-hearted at best.

John looked from the elder brother to the younger, confused.

"Did this to me? But – in this – reality or whatever you want to call it – I wasn't send back at all, was I? So how could we – "

"John" Sherlock explained patiently, "If it hadn't happened, you wouldn't be here with us. If it hadn't happened, you wouldn't have met me. I shouldn't know you. It has to have happened".

"That's too confusing for me" John replied. He massaged his temples.

"Time travel is a very complicated topic. It's full of paradoxes and contradictions". Sherlock shrugged. "Even I don't understand most of it".

It was then that John decided he could assemble all his old memories and write down everything.

If Sherlock Holmes could admit that he didn't understand something, John Watson could do something as simple as that.

**Author's note: Sorry for the shorter chapter.**

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


	33. Chapter 33

**Author's note: I think we are slowly nearing the end. I'm not sure. Bear with me.**

**I apologize for the once again shorter chapter. **

**I don't own anything. **

John insisted on being driven home after the lunch, despite Sherlock's protests.

He wanted to get to work as soon as possible.

And, much as it pained him to admit it, it would be easier without Sherlock sitting next to him, constantly reminding him that what he was writing down had never happened.

The scientist let him go with regret, but Mycroft simply gave him an understanding look and let Anthea (John had long ago given up on keeping track of her aliases and called her by the name he'd first known her by) take him home.

As soon as he entered his small, empty flat, he took out his laptop and started to write.

He had feared that it would be difficult; that he would only realize how much he had forgotten, how much could never be regained.

But instead, he found that it was surprisingly easy to rewrite his blog entries. And once he had accomplished that, the details flowed through his fingers unto the page, without any real conscious effort at all.

He wrote for hours, not regarding hunger and fatigue, full of sorrow for this life whose obituary he was writing down, but also full of joy because he remembered. And now that he could hold unto it, he would never forget.

He wrote through the rest of the day and half the night, never stopping for a moment until he had reached the day he had left 221B for the last time.

"_Sherlock, we need milk" the doctor announced exasperated, turning around. As expected, the consulting detective didn't acknowledge that he had spoken, instead focusing on the sample in his microscope._

_John sighed, but he wasn't angry, not really. At least he would get some fresh air, and Sherlock would text him if he needed him anyway._

"_Goodbye" he called as he slipped on his jacket._

If he had known this would be the last time he'd see his best friend...

John stopped and sighed. He still didn't remember anything after he'd opened the front door. Perhaps he really had been drugged.

He also had no idea who could have wanted to send him back in time. He and Sherlock had made quite a few enemies during the last few years, it was true; but which one of them would know about the time machine and use it to get John out of the way? Plus, whoever did it had had no idea what John would do, what changes he would cause.

It was all so confusing.

He sighed and shut of his laptop. He might as well try to get some rest, although he considered it unlikely. His leg was once again acting up.

On the other hand, he didn't much care for nightmares anyway.

John never knew how long he'd lain awake, and if he'd dozed off after all and dreamed about the soft music that came floating in through the window.

Either way, it lulled him into a deep dreamless sleep.

He was woken up by his phone. He groggily grabbed it and registered that it was an unknown number.

The moment he heard Sherlock's voice, he was wide awake.

"Good morning, John". The scientist sounded amused. "I assume I woke you up?"

"I spent half the night writing everything down" John replied, rubbing his eyes.

Sherlock was silent for a moment before asking, "Could you send me the document, please?"

"Of course" John answered, getting out of bed and limping to his desk. While his leg didn't hurt as much as it had when he had woken up in this new reality, his psychosomatic limp didn't seem to get any better, and he didn't expect that it would. The Sherlock who could have cured him didn't exist.

"John?" Sherlock asked, and the doctor realized he hadn't said anything in a while.

"Just give me your address" he forced out. He didn't want Sherlock to feel guilty for being polite, successful and on good terms with his brother.

After he'd sent the e-mail, Sherlock asked, "Do you want to grab some breakfast?"

"Y – Yes, sure" John replied, surprised.

"Good. You are way too thin to be healthy. In fact, I am rather sure you will get seriously ill if you don't put on at least five pounds. A doctor should know to take better care of himself".

At least Sherlock could still be an inconsiderate sod when he wanted to be.

The scientist cleared his throat, apparently having become aware what he had just said.

"I – "

"No, Sherlock, you are right."

"I'll be at your flat in half an hour" the other man replied relieved and hung up.

John put his phone down and shook his head. Somehow, ever since he had returned, their roles had been reversed. Now it was Sherlock taking care of him, making sure he ate enough, worrying that he was neglecting his health.

It made sense, though, since the doctor had had a hard enough time reminding himself to stay alive.

He pushed the memories of the last years away. He didn't care for them. He cared for his life with Sherlock.

And he would get something of it back, if it was the last thing he did.

His spirits had already lifted barely a day after he had met Sherlock properly in this reality, he realized. Maybe over time he would even be able to cure his limp, like he would have done had things turned out differently.

Sherlock knocked on his door precisely thirty minutes later, which gave John enough time for a shower.

As he took a look at himself in the bathroom mirror, he had to admit that he looked a little better than yesterday, although still much different from the ex-army doctor who had run after the World's only consulting detective at all times.

Sherlock smiled – an open smile that John had only seen on his face a few times, mostly when he looked at Mrs. Hudson or after a case – and greeted him with, "There's a good café on the end of the street."

John nodded and followed him.

The café was nice and quiet, but John, despite everything, still found it hard to believe that the owner didn't own Sherlock a favour.

This thought brought him to Angelo.

Until now, he had carefully avoided – even as he had written down their cases – to wonder what had happened to the murderers who his Sherlock had brought behind bars. What had happened to their cases.

Sherlock was still a consultant for the police, but not in the same capacity.

And this meant that probably quite a few murderers had gone free.

And others, like Angelo, had been wrongfully imprisoned.

The reason John hadn't thought about it until now was that he didn't want to know, not really. He wanted, needed to believe that he had done the right thing when he had changed the future.

Perhaps he was being selfish, perhaps he was an idiot – Sherlock could still have solved all these cases – and yet, he didn't want to think about it.

He didn't want to wonder if he had made a mistake.

Not when the only real thing he had now was his conviction that he had made the right choice.

It had to be done, though. He had to know.

"Sherlock?"

The scientist looked up from his breakfast – that he'd ordered without complaining, as long as John ate something – and gave him a half-smile.

"Yes?"

"I mention several cases in the document I sent you..."

Sherlock stiffened. Of course he would know what John wanted to say.

"I know you already went through it. Or at the very least took a fleeting look at it. Please. Tell me what became of the victims and suspects."

"I do not think this is – "

"I know. But I need to know. Please, Sherlock. For me". John was aware it was a cheap shot – even if Sherlock felt he owed him, though there was no reason to, he would have no right to use this thankfulness – but he would never get the information he needed without his help. He could always ask Greg, naturally, but he would feel better if Sherlock told him.

"Alright. But – " Sherlock looked down at his plate, biting his lip, before meeting John's eyes again. "Promise me you won't feel guilty if things haven't turned out well".

"I can't promise that" John answered softly, "It – "

"I know it doesn't work like that."

John stared at the scientist, taken aback who took out his phone and texted someone, most likely Mycroft. Sherlock had used the tone he knew so well – the impatient, "why am I even talking to such an idiot"-tone – and yet –

He should be happy, John told himself. He should be glad Sherlock understood emotions and was able to communicate with people he considered dull; he should be happy that he lived with his brother.

He swallowed and concentrated on emptying his plate. Sherlock looked happier every time he took a bite. It was the least he could do.

After a while, Sherlock began, "Mycroft is going through your memoir as we speak".

John ignored the stab he felt when Sherlock referred to the document as "your memoir" and asked, "To find out – "

"Yes. To find out who did this". Sherlock looked him in the eyes.

"John – "

The doctor shook his head. He didn't want to hear what he believed he was about to. He didn't want to hear that Sherlock considered this reality better, because he was a scientist and on good terms with his brother and people accepted him.

Sherlock continued.

"It wasn't as bad as you think" he said softly. "I know you feel you should be glad it didn't happen that way, but it wasn't bad. It was – what we did – It was – good."

John was struck speechless even as he couldn't suppress the flare of hope that this Sherlock might be more like his consulting detective than he had thought.

**Author's note: Like I said, I think I am slowly coming to the end... Just a little more patience, I'm begging you.**

**I hope you liked it, please review.**


	34. Chapter 34

**Author's note: Finally it's time to look at Sherlock's old cases. **

**Also, I'm so happy with the response to this fic. I've never had so many story followers before. I'm honoured.**

**I don't own anything. **

Unsurprisingly, Mycroft let Sherlock know that he'd found all there was to know on his old cases by the time they had finished breakfast.

John felt better after having cleared his plate at Sherlock's insistence; the scientist was right, he really was too thin. And if Sherlock made the effort to get to know him, he might as well look after himself.

Anthea was waiting for them in a limousine in front of the café. She greeted Sherlock with a bright smile and asked him how he was doing. Sherlock happily answered, and John spent the drive listening to two people who had obviously known each other for a while and were utterly comfortable in each other's presence catching up.

It took him a while to admit he was jealous. It wasn't that he wasn't glad that Sherlock could talk to other people without insulting them or being called a freak; but he had been one of the few people, one of the first people, Sherlock had truly been comfortable about, and now he felt like they were walking on eggshells when they so much as attempted a conversation. It was only to be expected; they weren't the people they could have been; but it hurt nonetheless.

And it made him wonder if perhaps he was too broken for this Sherlock. His thoughts were going in circles, he knew; or rather, he was constantly swinging between optimism and giving up, between the hope that what was lost could be regained and despair because it might be gone forever.

"John? We're here".

John looked out the window and realized that the car had indeed stopped. Anthea was looking at him curiously, and he tried to give her a smile before exiting the car after Sherlock.

Naturally, Mycroft was waiting for them in the Diogenes Club.

When they entered, he immediately said, "It is good to see you are doing better, John".

This time, John's smile was genuine because it was true. He was doing better. He still missed his old life, but at least he had found Sherlock.

Yes, he was definitely doing better.

He remembered Harry's phone calls and visits and felt suddenly guilty for not having called her. He would have to do that as soon as possible. If Sherlock and Mycroft could get along, so could he and his sister.

"I reviewed the cases mentioned in the document you were kind enough to send Sherlock" Mycroft said once they were all seated and he had offered them coffee, which they had declined. It was almost uncanny to see Mycroft so... caring.

No, that wasn't right. Despite what the elder Holmes had done, would have done, John had always known that he cared for his brother. That he wanted what was best for Sherlock.

It was simply the fact that, just like his little brother, he was so open, not afraid of showing that he cared.

"I went through all of them" Mycroft added unnecessarily, and John not only noted with surprised that the British Government had repeated himself, but also that there was a slight tremor in his voice.

For a moment, he didn't know why.

Then he realized and almost cursed.

He had been so glad that he could remember, so eager to write down everything, that he had – well, that he had written down everything.

Which meant Mycroft had read about his role in Sherlock's fake suicide.

The elder Holmes was blaming himself for something he hadn't done, and it was John's fault.

He bit his lip and looked at Sherlock, who was mustering his brother with concern. He hadn't mentioned Moriarty or his disappearance, had not mentioned anything to do with the life John had written down, in fact, but it was clear that he knew what Mycroft was thinking.

John wondered if he should apologize, try to explain, but Sherlock didn't say anything, and since the scientist obviously knew his brother very well, he decided it would be best to be silent too.

Mycroft cleared his throat and continued, apparently grateful that no one had commented on his strange behaviour.

"Of course, all the cases Moriarty arranged – would have arranged from the moment you shot him – never happened."

John breathed a sigh of relief. This was good news. It meant that Jeff Hope's victims were still alive; that Soo-Li Yao was building her new life in London; that no one had been decked out with explosives. It also meant that Irene Adler had never caused trouble, and of course –

Of course Sherlock hadn't been gone for three years.

John could live with that. He was ecstatic, and he opened his mouth, ready to thank Mycroft, when the elder Holmes raised his eyes from the file he was holding and John saw the worry clearly displayed on his face.

He closed his mouth without having said anything. He knew that now, he would hear something that he definitely wouldn't want to hear, something that would make him question his decisions yet again.

He looked down at his lip and clenched his trembling hand before nodding.

"Jo – "

Mycroft must have given his little brother a sign not to say anything, and John reminded himself to thank him later.

Mycroft took a deep breath and began.

"During your first case with Sherlock, you met a man named Angelo Catarra. You wrote that Sherlock got him off a murder charge.

Here, he didn't. He is still in prison, serving a life sentence for triple murder".

John should have known; a part of him had known. That was why he had avoided thinking about Sherlock's cases. Why he had avoided speculating what could have happened.

"It's not only that. Sherlock is still working as a consultant, but it appears that, instead of being called in on complex or, as you wrote it, "weird" cases, he is usually consulted as a forensic expert when it is difficult to interpret or work on the evidence. Therefore, he wasn't even on the cases you describe."

Mycroft paused, and John's stomach clenched. Sherlock hadn't been on the cases.

John, while not thinking most police men idiots, didn't think they could have solved the crimes without the consulting detective.

He was right.

"In a few cases, the real culprit, according to your blog, was eventually taken in custody. But in most – either they are still open, or someone has been wrongfully imprisoned."

John took deep breaths. It was as he had feared.

But, as he looked up, he could read in Mycroft's face that the worst part was yet to come.

"Tell me" he demanded.

"I do not think – "

"Tell. Me." John said through gritted teeth. If Mycroft didn't, he would simply imagine one horrific scenario after another, and the war had already given him enough fuel for nightmares.

"You and Sherlock saved several people over the course of your... association. Most of them are dead."

John nodded.

"Also, I gather that you and Henry Knight grew rather close after Sherlock had solved his father's murder".

"Yes" John replied, dread pooling in his stomach.

"He committed suicide. He shot himself in Dewer's Hollow. I am sorry, John."

The doctor felt dizzy.

"I think I'll have a glass of water now, please" he managed to say.

Sherlock quickly brought one over before Mycroft had even stood up.

John gulped it down, then asked, "What are you going to do?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"About the people who were wrongfully imprisoned. About the murderers who are still free".

The British Government looked down at the file once more.

"I will do what I can. Anthea is looking over everything as we speak. Of course, some of the cases are years old; all the evidence has disappeared. And without evidence..."

John nodded and stood up abruptly. "Excuse me for a moment". He grabbed his cane and quickly made his way to the bathroom, where he splashed cold water on his face and took long, even breaths.

All those people Sherlock had saved.

Naturally, many were alive because Moriarty was dead.

But John could not ignore that others had died because of him, because of the changed he had made, because of his decisions.

Poor Henry.

John wondered how Louise was doing, if she suspected what she had lost. The last time he and Sherlock had seen them – about a month before he had been sent back – she had been glowing, expecting their first child. Henry had been so relaxed, sure of himself, happier than John had ever seen him. And now he was dead.

John hadn't killed him. But he might as well have.

Henry had been about to shoot himself when Sherlock had reached him in Dewer's Hollow.

In this reality, no one had come to save him.

Just like no one had come to arrest the real killers, or like no one had come to prove that Angelo wasn't guilty.

Without wanting to, John did the math in head and realized he had been wrongfully imprisoned for over eight years now.

There was a knock on the door.

"I'm coming" he called, forgetting that he wasn't supposed to speak anywhere but the visitor's room.

Sherlock was waiting on the corridor, and John registered with surprise that no footmen was around to tell him to be silent. He suspected Sherlock had sent him away.

"How are you?"

He would never get used to Sherlock asking him so casually how he was doing. The closest he'd ever come to it had been frantic questions of "Are you alright?" on cases; but if neither of them had been in immediate danger, he had always shown his concern in more subtle ways. By trying and mostly succeeding in being silent in the night; by making tea; on one memorable occasion, when John had had another fight with Harry and hadn't left his room until the next afternoon, by buying tea.

He had never just asked, though, never like this.

"I – " he began, then stopped. He didn't know what to say. There was so much good he had done when he had killed Moriarty; but there was so much bad he had done when he had changed Sherlock's life.

"I solved other cases, you know" Sherlock said. "I put other murderers behind bars that might otherwise have gone free".

It was an entirely logical argument and therefore not likely to help, but John smiled because it was something his Sherlock might have said.

"I know" he answered, "it's not all bad. But, Sherlock – "

"Yes. I understand it must be difficult for you". Sherlock was silent for a moment, then continued, "I wish I could remember".

John didn't. It was difficult, remembering what could have been; and he didn't even want to imagine what Sherlock had suffered in the three years he had been gone.

"Trust me, it is better you don't"

Sherlock looked at him.

"I know my life was – I know it wasn't as... easy as it is now. But that – it's not the cases I wish to remember. I want to remember you".

John was taken aback. Sherlock had said it so sincerely, his expression so vulnerable, and the doctor felt like he might start to cry in the middle of the Diogenes Club while Mycroft was only a few feet away in another room, and everything was just so strange and distorted and –

Sherlock hugged him and John hugged back automatically.

They had only hugged once before, in either reality, first when Sherlock had returned, then right before John had returned to his own time, and it had been John who had initiated the hug both times.

It felt so different and yet so comfortingly familiar at the same time, hugging his best friend.

Sherlock pulled back and cleared his throat.

"Mycroft has found out something else."

They quickly returned to the visitor's room.

Mycroft was standing at the window and turned around when they entered.

"I think" he said slowly "I know who did this to you, John".

**Author's note: Finally something is happening. I am proud of myself. **

**I hope you liked it, please review.**


	35. Chapter 35

**Author's note: I can proudly proclaim that now I am positive that this story isn't going to be much longer. After this, there will probably only one or two chapters more. **

**I don't own anything, please review. **

John froze.

Somehow, after everything that had happened, he hadn't spared much thought to the one who had sent him back in time. Because, in the end, it didn't matter. What was done was done. He had chosen to return, he had chosen this life, and he couldn't get his old life back.

And, whoever had done it, he had given Sherlock a better life than John could ever have hoped. Yes, the doctor had been alone, he was limping, he was depressed. But Sherlock...

He shook himself. He really shouldn't let his thoughts run away like that. Of course it mattered.

If whoever had done this still had access to the time machine, he could do what he wanted, change what he wanted.

They had to stop him at all costs.

When Mycroft didn't say anything, John prompted, "And?"

The British Government didn't look at him, though. Instead, Mycroft looked at Sherlock.

He slowly began, "Two days ago, the night watch man at the lab filed a report saying that he thought he had heard something during his rounds; he searched the lab, but didn't find anything, so he concluded he'd imagined it. I figured there might be more to it, and there was. I just talked to him. When he came back to the front, he heard a car drive away. He recognized it because it belongs to someone who works there..."

And his younger brother understood immediately.

"Georges?"

He said it so quietly John almost didn't hear him, and the doctor stared at the scientist. He had never heard of someone named "Georges" – he would have known if he'd been a suspect in a case, and certainly would have remembered Sherlock mentioning a French acquaintance.

And yet Sherlock was pale as he uttered the name.

John knew he had to tread carefully. Whoever he was, it was clear that Sherlock knew him rather well.

"Georges?" he asked gently.

Sherlock had recovered and turned to him.

"You know him".

"In this reality, you mean?"

Sherlock nodded.

John frowned. "I'm sorry, I don't – "

"Doctor Vernet" Mycroft supplied.

"Wait – the one with the time machine? But why – "

"We didn't inform you" Sherlock said, letting himself fall into a chair, "that he is related to us".

John was about to ask why, when he remembered another information about the consulting detective's family that Sherlock had mentioned.

"Your French grandmother?"

The scientist nodded. "Yes. He's a distant cousin of Mycroft and me".

John shook his head.

"Sorry, I fail to see why he would do anything against me. I mean, I don't even know if he was in charge of the time machine in the other reality. You certainly never mentioned him. I guess if he did send me back, he must have done it in both realities, but wouldn't he have no reason to here, if he had a reason to begin with? And..."

He stopped, his attempt to make sense of all this only succeeding to make him more confused.

At least it got a small smile out of Sherlock.

"It is complicated" he said and stood up. "But it makes sense. He's the director of the lab where the time machine was constructed; therefore, he would easily be able to use it to send you back in time. As regards to motive – we don't have enough data to know".

John nodded. Whoever had sent him back must have had access to the time machine, and it couldn't be easy to break into a lab that most people didn't know existed.

When one already had the access, though, and knew where the cameras where and when the watchman made his rounds...

"Let's go" he said, and the brothers looked at him.

"We all know no one, especially not the police, would believe us" he elaborated, "so why wait? I want to meet him. I want to know."

He didn't only want to know, but he needed to know. His old life was becoming less real as the time passed, not because he didn't remember it anymore, but because his limp and Sherlock and everything reminded him again and again that this was reality, this was what his life was now.

As he followed Sherlock and Mycroft, another thought came to him.

Vernet had said that he could only send him to a time after he'd entered the machine. Then, he had had no reason to be suspicious.

But now...

What if Vernet had lied? What then?

What if there was a chance – what if John could go back? What if he could have his old life back?

Sherlock and Mycroft hadn't said anything, but the doctor was sure they wondered the same.

He limped behind them to the limousine, once more noting that they both walked more slowly than they normally would have so he had no problems catching up.

He was not only thankful because of his limp, but also because it gave him time – even if it was only five minutes – to think.

Think about what just the chance of changing everything back implied.

Sherlock was a scientist; Sherlock lived with Mycroft; Sherlock wasn't called a freak, had never played games with Moriarty.

Mycroft was much friendlier, more open, more relaxed, despite still being the British Government. He looked after his little brother, he had never betrayed him.

Greg was still married, it was true, but he was still a DI, and if his wife was cheating on him, it would be easy enough to tell him. Mrs. Hudson, however...

But Sherlock was right; they could look into the cases John remembered. They could help Mrs. Hudson. And the scientist had solved cases, had put murderers behind bars. He'd simply done so in a different way than he would have done if John hadn't changed the past.

And yet –

John hated himself for the fact that there even was an "And yet".

John was just selfish enough to desperately wish he could go back.

It had less to do with his leg and his depression and his meaningless life, and more with –

Sherlock.

The doctor told himself that, in many ways, this reality was preferable. Considering everything – yes, this reality was better. Fairer.

But –

Sherlock's and his relationship – it was –

They were slowly becoming friends, John was sure. Sherlock fed him, looked after him, had hugged him.

Maybe that was the problem.

Because, somehow –

It felt wrong.

It felt wrong to be the one looked after. It felt wrong that Sherlock was so careful with him, like he was something fragile, something that could easily be broken.

It felt wrong, plain and simple.

Yes, he was selfish, and he didn't want this choice. He found himself hoping that Vernet hadn't lied.

But a part of him was desperately wishing that he had.

He didn't know what he wanted. He only knew he didn't want to choose.

Because he didn't know what he would do if he could.

The limousine was empty this time – apparently Mycroft didn't even want Anthea to know what his relative had been up to – and they got in.

John kept bouncing his got leg, the thoughts whirling through his brain.

He caught Mycroft's gaze.

And he knew that the elder Holmes was thinking the same thing he was.

He didn't know, however, what Mycroft was expecting him to do. What he thought John would do.

There was a trace of well-concealed panic in Mycroft's eyes. Of course he didn't want to lose what he and Sherlock had.

And that was when John knew; knew he couldn't do that. He couldn't force Sherlock to live on the streets until Mycroft bought him a plane ticket; couldn't force Mycroft to betray his brother; couldn't force his best friend to fake his death for three years.

He just couldn't.

He glanced at Sherlock from the corner of his eye; the scientist had thankfully closed his eyes, was probably researching something, going through every conversation he ever had with Vernet in his mind palace.

John looked at Mycroft and shook his head.

Mycroft nodded and the doctor could see the relief in his eyes.

They arrived at the lab not ten minutes later and quickly made their way to the time machine.

Vernet was standing in front of it, reading some notes in a file.

He looked up. His eyes staid on John just a second too long.

The brothers had been right.

And he knew they knew. That didn't stop him from trying to pretend he didn't, however.

"Sherlock – Mycroft. And – isn't that the man I had to send forwards in time? Of course, I did send you into the year 2015, I should have remembered..."

"Please, Georges, don't embarrass yourself and us. We all know why we are here".

Vernet smiled. "Do we, Sherlock".

"Yes" John answered, finally feeling the anger at having his life ripped apart and put back together in a completely different way surge through him.

Before Mycroft or Sherlock could stop him, he had walked up to Vernet and grabbed his collar, yanking his face towards his own.

"Why?" he spat.

Vernet freed himself with one quick movement and took a step back. His face took a nasty expression.

"Because I couldn't stand it. Sherlock, who had been living on the street, being the hero, having a friend. And me? I was still just a scientist here. Mycroft wouldn't help me. Even though I am his flesh and blood too and certainly more worthy of his attention that his erratic brother. But no. And especially since he came back – I was glad he was gone, and then he came back – everyone has been so sorry for everything. For the poor Reichenbach hero. And I was still the scientist nobody, not even the people I worked for, acknowledged".

John hoped that Mycroft and Sherlock were working out a plan behind his back. He was standing there, frozen, staring at a madman who had ripped time apart because he had felt snubbed.

He got the feeling that Vernet and Moriarty would have got along quite well.

"So I decided to have some fun. I couldn't really harm him, not with you and Mycroft around. So I thought – why not send you somewhere in time? So, here we are. And I'm running this lab. Of course there are some things I still wish were different..." He looked at Sherlock, and a shiver ran down John's spine.

"You are insane."

Vernet shrugged.

"That may be, but you have to admit that one has to be to even attempt to build a time machine."

John wished he had his gun with him. He had foolishly not put it in his pocket when he had left his flat this morning.

Just as he thought that, Vernet pulled out a gun and took a step towards John. His eyes were blazing.

"Now, would you please step back like a good little soldier? I have decided to leave, and I don't want anyone playing around with the controls."

He wanted to take the time machine.

John couldn't allow that. God knew what this man could do to all of them if he disappeared in the time stream.

He didn't step back. He would gladly die, here and now, if it meant Sherlock and Mycroft and their lives were safe.

"I can't do that" he said.

"I can't allow you to change anything else, sorry".

Vernet smiled and, almost like in slow motion, John saw him raise the gun between his eyes.

If only he were as strong and quick as he had been when he'd left 221B for the last time.

Still, John was surprisingly calm as he realized that this was truly it. At least he had done something good with his life. And Sherlock would take care of the cases and Mrs. Hudson, he was sure.

Then, he was pulled back, just as a shot rang out.

He fell down, registering that he was still alive and that Vernet was cursing.

Mycroft rushed forward but stopped, giving Vernet time to enter the machine.

John wanted to ask him why, but when he turned around his breath caught in his throat.

Sherlock was lying on the floor, his breaths laboured.

There was a bullet wound in his neck.

**Author's note: Cliffhanger? I don't see any cliffhanger.**

**I hope you liked it, please review.**


	36. Chapter 36

**Author's note: Here's the last chapter. Enjoy. **

John forgot everything, Vernet, time travel, his limp.

He sprang up and rushed at Sherlock's side. Mycroft was already trying to still the blood flow from Sherlock's neck while calling for an ambulance with the mobile phone in his other hand.

The doctor quickly took Sherlock's pulse; it was quick and irregular.

John had never, not for one moment, regretted studying medicine. But he came as close to it as he had ever been as he looked at Sherlock's wound.

Because he knew that he wouldn't survive the next few minutes.

All they had been through together, all the cases they would have solved, everything John had screwed up when he'd been thrown into the past, everything he had done right.

And in the end he had killed Sherlock.

If he had turned the other way when he had met the young drug addict, if he had simply concentrated on getting home, none of this would have happened.

"They will be here shortly" Mycroft announced, but the doctor could tell that he knew.

"Jo – John..." Sherlock pressed out.

"No, Sherlock, don't talk. The ambulance is on its way" John answered. "Just try to breathe".

There was so much he wanted to tell him, so many things he hadn't told his best friend even after he had returned from the dead. Somehow, once Sherlock had beaten death, it had seemed like they had all the time in the world.

How wrong he had been.

Sherlock's breathing grew even more laboured and John realized not only would he die, he wouldn't live long enough for the ambulance to get here. They weren't even allowed a little bit of hope.

Sherlock grabbed his arm and, despite John shaking his head, he hissed, "The time machine".

John's eyes widened.

Of course.

"Mycroft? Do you think you can – "

But the elder Holmes had already sprinted towards the machine and was looking over the controls.

"I think so – Georges never let anyone near it when he was in the building, but I frequently visited Sherlock when he was working here, and he explained to me how it was supposed to work once..."He took a deep breath.

"It has to work."

"Alright" John said. "Send me back an hour, that should give me time to – "

Sherlock's grip on his arm tightened.

The doctor looked back at Sherlock, alarmed, and the scientist tried to shake his head.

"Sherlock, you have to hold st –"

"That doesn't matter anymore."

Sherlock coughed up blood and John attempted to put more pressure on the wound than he already did.

"Go back and stop Georges".

"I am – "

"No, not...like...that" The grip on John's arm was painful now, and the doctor wished he would save his strength, but he couldn't shake him off, and he couldn't try to pry it off without taking at least one hand from the wound.

"Prevent – everything" Sherlock gasped, and John understood.

He looked at him, the man who could have been his best friend, and shook his head.

"You don't know what you are saying" he stated, his voice calm despite the panic he felt. How much longer would it take for Mycroft to figure out the settings? Sherlock's blood was flowing over his hands, and it was redder than anything John had ever seen, the colour screaming in the neutral white lab.

And where was the ambulance?

"I – know – exactly – what – I am – saying –" Sherlock pressed out, and John felt his pulse quicken even more because of the anger coursing through him. He quickly tried to calm the scientist down.

"Please, Sherlock – you have only read about it. I have seen what your life would have been like – will be like, if I do this. No. This is a good life".

It didn't work; the scientist was still angry, his eyes blazing.

"So – I don't get to choose?"

He was starting to slur, making his words harder to understand than they already were since he kept coughing and gasping and John knew these noises so well, had heard them hundreds of times in Afghanistan, telling him that a life was about to end, that there was nothing he could do...

"This has nothing to do with choice – " he began, desperate.

"It has ever – everything to do with choice" Sherlock coughed again and again, and John wanted to make him stop talking but knew he wouldn't succeed.

"You chose to change the... past. You – chose to... to help a homeless drug addict. You... gave me... this. Let – Let me choose you".

John wasn't going to change Sherlock's life for the worse because the scientist insisted on it due to some misplaced gratitude. He wouldn't do that to him.

"No" John simply said. "You have no idea what it was like – your life before. You may _know_, but you can't really imagine it. You suffered so much. And Moriarty – what he did – people got hurt."

"And here? You – you said – Henry Knight".

Sherlock really had trouble forming the words now, and John felt useless tears running down his cheeks.

He had already watched Sherlock die once. But then, it had been over quickly, and he hadn't felt his life ebbing away.

"Mycroft?" he asked, and the elder Holmes shouted back, "Almost done".

"We can fix your old cases, Sherlock".

"Not – all". Sherlock took a deep breath. "Mycroft?"

John didn't have to turn around to know that the British Government had looked up from the machine, desperate to run to his brother but aware that time was of the essence.

"You – know – which settings".

"Sherlock – "

John had never heard so many raw emotions in Mycroft's voice before. The elder Holmes knew what it meant if he sent John back to the time he'd been put in the machine. Mycroft would leave his brother alone on the streets, Mycroft would betray his brother, Mycroft would cost his brother three years of his life.

"Mycroft – " Sherlock coughed and his brother answered, his voice calm, "As you wish".

He didn't want to betray Sherlock here, John realized, he didn't want to lie to him and tell him he had put the settings according to his wishes when he hadn't. Come to think of it, Mycroft had never really lied to his brother – he hadn't told him certain things, but that wasn't the same as lying.

"John – "

The doctor looked back at Sherlock, at all the blood, and prayed for the ambulance to arrive, so that he could convince Mycroft not to change this because Sherlock was happy and Moriarty had died a long time ago –

"Not – all. As I... said before."

"All in all, this reality is better."

"Yours – the old one – it feels... real" Sherlock coughed again, and suddenly John wished that his pulse was still razing because he couldn't deny that it was slowing, slowing...

"We should be different" Sherlock breathed, and John wanted to argue, wanted to tell him that –

He didn't know what to tell him because it was true, because their friendship was the one thing that had turned out so differently that it hurt, because John didn't want to be someone to be looked after, because –

Sherlock went limp.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!"

He didn't have a pulse.

John was about to attempt to resuscitate him – even though his experience told him it would be useless – but Mycroft dragged him off his brother's body.

John looked up and almost jumped back.

He had never seen Mycroft so broken.

"It's time to go" the British Government said, his voice flat.

"Mycroft – "

"Stop him from sending you back in the first place."

"But Mycroft – "

"No". He shook his head. "I am not going to betray his confidence, not when he – " his eyes trailed over to his little brother's body, and for a moment, John thought he might faint. "I am sending you here, at about the time you left the flat. You might have to wait a few hours, but you can stop Georges".

"Just – " Mycroft suddenly laughed, a short, bitter laugh. "Look after him".

John swallowed, remembering their last goodbye twenty years ago, and nodded.

"Goodbye" he said gently, and he didn't know whether he was saying it to Sherlock or Mycroft or both.

With one last look at Sherlock's body, he entered the machine.

He didn't know what he had expected, but in the end, he saw and heard and felt – nothing.

He simply went in the machine and suddenly he was in the lab. A clock on the wall told him that it was indeed nine am.

Since there weren't any places to hide, he stood next to the door, wishing more than ever that he had his gun with him.

Although, looking at his hands, where Sherlock's blood was slowly drying, feeling it stick to his skin and knowing that he would always feel it, John decided that this was probably a good thing.

He didn't have to wait as long as he had expected. About ten am, he heard the sound of a stretcher being pushed down the corridor and prepared himself to attack.

Vernet didn't look on either side as he pushed a stretcher with a white sheet covering the prone form of someone – and how strange it was to think it was John himself – into the room.

John immediately attacked him from behind.

The stretcher rolled off and bumped into a corner, but John didn't have the time to even wonder if he was alright, because Vernet might not have been an ex-soldier, but was still putting up a desperate fight.

He recognized John, of course, and spat, "You!"

John didn't answer. There was nothing he wanted to say.

Instead, he punched him in the face and found that he couldn't stop.

Only when Vernet was lying unconscious on the floor, he heard his nose break and John was breathing heavily could he force himself to stand up.

He heard several people running toward the door and realized that he had no idea how to explain an unconscious scientist, his own past self on a stretcher and Sherlock's blood on his hands –

He looked down and saw nothing. His hands were clean. Well, there were a few drops of blood, but they came from Vernet's nose.

Furthermore, in the glass panels of the door he could see his reflection. He wasn't as thin anymore as he had been when he had entered the machine, and there were no dark circles under his eyes.

He looked like himself again.

John spun around and stared at the empty stretcher.

He had no idea what had happened, but he knew that everything was back to normal. Or as normal as it could get.

And that made him happy enough to cheerfully tell the security guards who rushed in the room to "call Mycroft Holmes". They stared at him, but apparently did what he had asked, because half an hour later, the Mycroft John knew strolled into the lab, carrying his faithful umbrella.

He raised an eyebrow. "I am informed that you attacked Doctor Vernet".

"Your cousin wanted to send me back in time to have some fun" John replied matter-of-factly, and Mycroft believed him, if only because he could see John wasn't lying.

"I will see to it that he is interrogated. And that he doesn't come near the machine again."

"You might want to destroy it, too. It's dangerous".

With these words, John walked towards the door.

"John? You are aware that you have to answer – "

He turned around.

"I know. And I will. But now – now I have to see Sherlock".

Mycroft looked at him and somehow understood.

His eyes travelled to the time machine.

"Time is a strange entity" was all he said.

"So is Fate" John answered.

To his surprise, Sherlock was standing in front of two security guards (or secret agents, with Mycroft around, it was difficult to tell), explaining to them why he had every right to get in, sounding more frustrated with every sentence, and John, who felt like his heart might explode just from seeing his Sherlock again, decided to interfere before one or both of them ended up arrested. Once again.

"Hello, Sherlock" he said, stepping around the guards.

Sherlock immediately deduced him and breathed a sigh of relief. "John – these incompetent – "

But he didn't get to continue because John threw his arms around him and hugged him.

To his delight, Sherlock hugged back.

The doctor pulled away and smiled.

"Let's go home. I need a cup of tea".

"I called Mrs. Hudson and let her know that we have no milk".

John laughed. He couldn't help it. He was so happy, even if he felt guilty of the changes he had made, although these changes wouldn't have been made if he hadn't made changes in the first place –

God, he really needed tea.

They didn't say much in the cab, but it was enough, this was enough, they were who they were supposed to be again.

Mrs. Hudson fussed over him, of course, brought them tea and biscuits, and John stifled the ridiculous urge to cry with relief.

He did the same when Greg called a few minutes after Mrs. Hudson had left because he had heard of a "disturbance in a lab". John didn't mention that he knew where the information came from. Apparently he was John's handler now too.

Once they had drunk their tea and eaten their biscuits and John had stared long enough at Sherlock to convince himself he wouldn't disappear, the consulting detective – his consulting detective – asked, "John, what did he do?"

Of course Sherlock had figured out that something must have happened; otherwise John wouldn't have known what Vernet was about to do, and if he'd had time to find out about it, he would have told Sherlock.

So John told Sherlock. He told him everything, about the past, the different present, the possible future that he made impossible by going back and returning everything to the way it was before.

After he had finished, Sherlock studied him with a look he couldn't read.

"This other – present sounds interesting."

John's heart sank as guilt started to flow through him. Sherlock could have been a scientist, happy, carefree.

"But not better".

The tone in which Sherlock said it was final, and before John had even time to process what he meant, he'd stood up and fetched his violin.

When John recognized the melody Sherlock always played to chase his nightmares away, he smiled.

Because, despite everything –

A world where he and Sherlock weren't as close as they could be would always feel like a nightmare to John.

Yes, there would always be what ifs, and there would always be the guilt that John had more or less saved Moriarty's life and condemned people to death, but he had to concentrate on what he had. What he had got back.

Sherlock had been right. The other reality hadn't been better.

Because this was as good as John Watson's life could possibly get.

**Autor's note: This is the end, my friends. It's been an incredibly journey – this is my longest fanfiction to date, and my most complicated one as well. **

**It wasn't easy, trying to tell such a story and at the same time keeping everyone in character, but it was worth it. I certainly had a lot of fun.**

**A big thank you to you all of you for staying with this story until the end. Please tell me what you thought.**

**Until the next time, I wish you all the best of days,**

**Hekate. **


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